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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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Ada  Nisbet 


ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


JUL  17  1986 


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ERNEST  MALTRAVERS 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS 


BY 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER^LYTTON,  BART. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  East  17TH  St.  (Union  Square) 


THB  MERSHOM  COMPANY  PRBSS, 
RAHVVAY,  N.  J. 


Al 


A  WORD  TO  THE  READER. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  1837. 


Thou  must  not,  my  old  and  partial  friend,  look  into  this  work 
for  that  species  of  interest  which  is  drawn  from  stirring  adven- 
tures and  a  perpetual  variety  of  incident.  To  a  Novel  of  the 
present  day  are  necessarily  forbidden  the  animation,  the 
excitement,  the  bustle,  the  pomp,  and  the  stage-effect  which 
History  affords  to  Romance.  Whatever  merits,  in  thy  gentle 
eyes,  "Rienzi,"  or  '*The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  may  have 
possessed,  this  Tale,  if  it  please  thee  at  all,  must  owe  that  happy 
fortune  to  qualities  widely  different  from  those  which  won 
thy  favor  to  pictures  of  the  Past.  Thou  must  sober  down 
thine  imagination,  and  prepare  thyself  for  a  story  not  dedicated 
to  the  narrative  of  extraordinary  events — nor  the  elucidation 
of  the  characters  of  great  men.  Though  there  is  scarcely  a 
page  in  this  work  episodical  to  the  main  design,  there  may  be 
much  that  may  seem  to  thee  wearisome  and  prolix,  if  thou  wilt 
not  lend  thyself,  in  a  kindly  spirit,  and  with  a  generous  trust, 
to  the  guidance  of  the  Author.  In  the  hero  of  this  tale  thou 
wilt  find  neither  a  majestic  demigod,  nor  a  fascinating  demon. 
He  is  a  man  with  the  weaknesses  derived  from  humanity,  with 
the  strength  that  we  inherit  from  the  soul ;  not  often  obstinate 
in  error,  more  often  irresolute  in  virtue  ;  sometimes  too  aspir- 
ing, sometimes  too  despondent :  influenced  by  the  circum- 
stances to  which  he  yet  struggles  to  be  superior,  and  changing 
in  character  with  the  changes  of  time  and  fate  ;  but  never 
wantonly  rejecting  those  great  principles  by  which  alone  we 
can  work  out  the  Science  of  Life — a  desire  for  the  Good,  a 
passion  for  the  Honest,  a  yearning  after  the  True.  From  such 
principles.  Experience,  that  severe  Mentor,  teaches  us  at 
length  the  safe  and  practical  philosophy  which  consists  of 
Fortitude  to  bear,  Serenity  to  enjoy,  and  P'aith  to  look  beyond  ! 

It  would  have  led,  perhaps,  to  more  striking  incidents,  and 
have  furnished  an  interest  more  intense,  if  I  had  cast  Mai- 


4  A    WORD   TO   THE   READER. 

travers,  the  Man  of  Genius,  amidst  those  fierce  but  ennobling 
struggles  with  poverty  and  want  to  which  genius  is  so  often 
condemned.  But  wealth  and  lassitude  have  their  temptations 
as  well  as  penury  and  toil.  And  for  the  rest — I  have  taken 
much  of  my  tale  and  many  of  my  characters  from  real  life,  and 
would  not  unnecessarily  seek  other  fountains  when  the  Well  of 
Truth  was  in  my  reach. 

The  Author  has  said  his  say,  he  retreats  once  more  into 
silence  and  into  shade ;  he  leaves  you  alone  with  the  creations 
he  has  called  to  life — the  representatives  of  his  emotions  and 
his  thoughts — the  intermediators  between  the  individual  and 
the  crowd  : — Children  not  of  the  clay,  but  of  the  spirit,  may 
they  be  faithful  to  their  origin  ! — so  should  they  be  monitors, 
not  loud  but  deep,  of  the  world  into  which  they  are  cast, 
struggling  against  the  obstacles  that  will  beset  them,  for  the 
heritage  of  their  parent — the  right  to  survive  the  grave ! 

London,  August  12,  1837. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


BOOK   I. 

Id  yap  vtdt^ov  kv  ToidiG(k  ^SoKErai 
Xupoiatv  avTovp  '  Kal  viv  ov  6d2.nog  6eov 
Ov6'  ofifipoc  ovie  TcvEVfiaTuv  ovSev  kTmvei 
AA/l'  Tjdovalg  afioxdov  k^aipei  ^iov. 

Soph.  Trachin  144. 

Youth  pastures  in  a  valley  of  its  own  : 

The  glare  of  noon — the  rains  and  winds  of  heaven 

Mar  not  the  calm  yet  virgin  of  all  care. 

But  ever  with  sweet  joys  it  buildeth  up 

The  airy  halls  of  life." 


CHAPTER   I. 

"My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest  in  the  behalf  of  the  maid 
*  *  *  *  yet,  who  would  have  suspected  an  ambush  where  I  was  taken  ?  " 

Alts  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Act.  iv.  Sc.  3. 

Some  four  miles  distant  from  one  of  ournorthern  manufactur- 
ing towns,  in  the  year  18 — ,  was  a  wide  and  desolate  common; 
a  more  dreary  spot  it  is  impossible  to  conceive — the  herbage 
grew  up  in  sickly  patches  from  the  midst  of  a  black  and  stony 
soil.  Not  a  tree  was  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  of  the  comfortless 
expanse.  Nature  herself  had  seemed  to  desert  the  solitude,  as  if 
scared  by  the  ceaseless  din  of  the  neighboring  forges  ;  and  even 
Art,  which  presses  all  things  into  service,  had  disdained  to  cull 
use  or  beauty  from  these  unpromising  demesnes.  There  was 
somethingweirdand  primeval  in  theaspectoftheplace;  especially 
when  in  the  long  nights  of  winter  you  beheld  the  distant  fires  and 
lights,  which  give  to  the  vicinity  of  certain  manufactories  so 
preternatural  an  appearance,  streaming  red  and  wild  over  the 
waste.  So  abandoned  by  man  appeared  the  spot,  that  you  found 
it  difficult  to  imagine  that  it  was  only  from  human  fires  that  its 
black  and  barren  desolation  was  illumined.  For  miles  along  the 
moor  you  detected  no  vestige  of  any  habitation  ;  but  as  you 
approached  the  verge  nearest  to  the  town,  you  could  just  perceive 


6  EkNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

at  a  little  distance  from  the  main  road,  by  which  the  common 
was  intersected,  a  small,  solitary,  and  miserable  hovel. 

Within  this  lonely  abode,  at  the  time  in  which  my  story  opens, 
were  seated  two  persons.  The  one  was  a  man  of  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  in  a  squalid  and  wretched  garb,  which  was  yet  relieved 
by  an  affectation  of  ill-assorted  finery.  A  silk  handkerchief,  which 
boasted  the  ornament  of  a  large  broochof  false  stones,  was  twisted 
jauntilyjound  a  muscular  but  meagre  throat ;  his'tattered  breeches 
were  also  decorated  by  buckles,  one  of  pinchbeck,  and  one  of 
steel.  His  frame  was  lean,  but  broad  and  sinewy,  indicative  of 
considerable  strength.  His  countenance  was  prematurely  marked 
by  deep  furrows,  and  his  grizzled  hair  waved  over  a  low,  rugged 
and  forbidding  brow,  on  which  there  hung  an  everlasting  frown 
that  no  smile  from  the  lips  (and  the  man  smiled  often)  could 
chase  away.  It  was  a  face  that  spoke  of  long  continued  and 
hardened  vice — it  was  one  in  which  the  Past  had  written  indelible 
characters.  The  brand  of  the  hangman  could  not  have  stamped 
it  more  plainly,  nor  have  more  unequivocally  warned  the  suspi- 
cion of  honest  or  timid  men. 

He  was  employed  in  counting  some  few  and  paltry  coins, 
which,  though  an  easy  matter  to  ascertain  their  value,  he  told 
and  retold,  as  if  the  act  could  increase  the  amount.  "  There 
must  be  some  mistake  here,  Alice,"  he  said  in  a  low  and  muttered 
tone  :  "  we  can't  be  so  low — you  know  I  had  two  pounds  in  the 
drawer  but  Monday,  and  now — Alice,  you  must  have  stolen 
some  of  the  money — curse  you." 

The  person  thus  addressed  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
smouldering  and  sullen  fire ;  she  now  looked  quietly  up, — and 
her  face  singularly  contrasted  that  of  the  man. 

She  seemed  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  and  her  complexion 
was  remarkably  pure  and  delicate,  even  despite  the  sunburnt 
tinge  which  her  habits  of  toil  had  brought  it.  Her  auburn  hair 
hung  in  loose  and  natural  curls  over  her  forehead,  and  its  luxur- 
iance was  remarkable  even  in  one  so  young.  Her  countenance 
was  beautiful,  nay,  even  faultless,  in  its  small  and  child-like 
features,  but  the  expression  pained  you — it  was  so  vacant.  In 
repose  it  was  almost  the  expression  of  an  idiot — but  when  she 
spoke,  or  smiled,  or  even  moved  a  muscle,  the  eyes,  color,  lips, 
kindled  into  a  life,  which  proved  that  the  intellect  was  still  there, 
though  but  imperfectly  awakened. 

"I  did  not  steal  any,  father,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice;  "but  I 
should  like  to  have  taken  some,  only  I  knew  you  would  beat 
me  if  I  did." 

"And  what  do  you  want  money  for?" 


ERNEST    MALTRAVEKS.  7 

"To  get  food  when  I'm  hungry."     , 

"Nothing  else  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

The  girl  paused — "Why  don't  you  let  me  ?"she  said,  after  a 
while,  "why  don't  you  let  me  go  and  work  with  the  other  girls  at 
the  factory  ?   I  should  make  money  there  for  you  and  me  both." 

The  man  smiled — such  a  smile — it  seemed  to  bring  into  sud- 
den play  all  the  revolting  characteristics  of  his  countenance. 
"  Child,"  he  said,  "  you  are  just  fifteen,  and  a  sad  fool  you  are  : 
perhaps  if  you  went  to  the  factory,  you  would  get  away  from 
me ;  and  what  should  I  do  without  you  ?  No,  I  think,  as  you 
are  so  pretty,  you  might  get  more  money  another  way." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  understand  this  allusion  ;  but  re- 
peated, vacantly,  "I  should  like  to  go  to  the  factory." 

"  Stuff !  "  said  the  man,  angrily,  "I  have  three  minds  to — " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
hovel. 

The  man  grew  pale.  "  What  can  that  be?  "he  muttered.  "The 
hour  is  late — near  eleven.  Again — again  !  Ask  who  knocks, 
Alice." 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  or  so  at  the  door ;  and  as  she 
stood,  her  form,  rounded  yet  slight,  her  earnest  look,  her  varying 
color,  her  tender  youth,  and  a  singular  grace  of  attitude  and  ges- 
ture, would  have  inspired  an  artist  with  the  very  ideal  of  rustic 
beauty. 

After  a  pause,  she  placed  her  lips  to  a  chink  in  the  door,  and 
repeated  her  father's  question. 

"  Pray  pardon  me,"  said  a  clear,  loud,  yet  courteous  voice, "  but 
seeing  a  light  at  your  window,  I  have  ventured  to  ask  if  anyone 
within  will  conduct  me  to ;  I  will  pay  the  service  hand- 
somely." 

"  Open  the  door,  Alley,"  said  the  owner  of  the  hut. 

The  girl  drew  a  large  wooden  bolt  from  the  door ;  and  a  tall 
figure  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  new-comer  was  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  perhaps  about 
eighteen  years  of  age,  and  his  air  and  appearance  surprised  both 
sire  and  daughter.  Alone,  on  foot,  at  such  an  hour,  it  was  im- 
possible for  anyone  to  mistake  him  for  other  than  a  gentleman  ; 
yet  his  dress  was  plain  and  somewhat  soiled  by  dust,  and  he  car- 
ried a  small  knapsack  on  his  shoulder.  As  he  entered  he  lifted 
his  hat  with  somewhat  foreign  urbanity,  and  a  profusion  of  fair 
brown  hair  fell  partially  over  a  high  and  commanding  forehead. 
His  features  were  handsome,  without  being  eminently  so,  and 
his  aspect  was  at  once  bold  and  prepossessing. 


8  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"lam  much  obliged  byyour  civility,"  he  said,  advancing  care- 
lessly, and  addressing  the  man,  who  surveyed  him  with  a  scru- 
tinizing eye  ;  "and  trust,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  will  increase 
the  obligation  by  accompanying  me  to ." 

"  You  can't  miss  well  your  way,"  said  the  man,  surlily  ;  "  the 
lights  will  direct  you." 

"  They  have  rather  misled  me,  for  they  seem  to  surround  the 
whole  common,  and  there  is  no  path  across  it  that  I  can  see  ; 
however,  if  you  will  put  me  in  the  right  road,  1  will  not  trouble 
you  further." 

"It  is  very  late,"  replied  the  churlish  landlord,  equivocally. 

"The  better  reason  why  I  should  be  at .  Come,  my  good 

friend,  put  on  your  hat,  and  I  will  give  you  half  a  guinea  for 
your  trouble." 

The  man  advanced,  then  halted  ;  again  surveyed  his  guest, 
and  then  said,  "Are  you  quite  alone,  sir?" 

"Quite." 

"  Probably  you  are  known  at ?" 

"  Not  I.  But  what  matters  that  to  you  ?  I  am  a  stranger  in 
these  parts." 

"  It  is  full  four  miles." 

"  So  far,  and  I  am  fearfully  tired  already  ! "  exclaimed  the 
young  man  with  impatience.  As  he  spoke,  he  drew  out  his 
watch.     "  Past  eleven,  too  !  " 

The  watch  caught  the  eye  of  the  cottager  ;  that  evil  eye  spark- 
led. He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  "  I  am  thinking,  sir," 
ne  said,  in  a  more  civil  tone  than  he  had  yet  assumed,  "  that  as  you 
are  so  tired,  and  the  hour  is  so  late,  you  might  almost  as  well — " 

"  What  ?"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  stamping  somewhat  petu- 
lantly. 

"  Tdon't  like  to  mention  it ;  but  my  poor  roof  is  at  your  service, 
and  I  would  go  with  you  to at  daybreak  to-morrow." 

The  stranger  stared  at  the  cottager,  and  then  at  the  dingy 
walls  of  the  hut.  He  was  about,  very  abruptly,  to  reject  the 
hospitable  proposal,  when  his  eye  rested  suddenly  upon  the  form 
of  Alice,  who  stood,  eager-eyed  and  open-mouthed,  gazing  on 
the  handsome  intruder.  As  she  caught  his  eye,  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  turned  aside.  The  view  seemed  to  change  the  in- 
tentions of  the  stranger.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth  ;  and  sinking  his  knapsack  on  the 
ground,  he  cast  himself  into  a  chair  beside  the  fire,  stretched 
hislimbs,  and  cried  gaily,  "So  be  it,  my  host;  shut  up  your  house 
again.  Bring  me  a  cup  of  beer,  and  a  crust  of  bread,  and  so 
much  for  supper  !     As  for  bed,  this  chair  will  do  vastly  well." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  9 

"  Perhaps  we  can  manage  better  for  you  than  that  chair,"  an- 
swered the  host.  "  But  our  best  accommodation  must  seem  bad 
enough  to  a  gentleman  ;  we  are  very  poor  people — hard-work- 
ing, but  very  poor." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  answered  the  stranger,  busying  himself 
stirring  the  fire  ;  '*  I  am  tolerably  well  accustomed  to  greater  hard- 
ships than  sleeping  on  a  chair  in  an  honest  man's  house  ;  and 
although  you  are  poor,  I  will  take  it  for  granted  you  are 
honest." 

The  man  grinned,  and  turning  to  Alice,  bade  her  spread  what 
their  larder  would  afford.  Some  crusts  of  bread,  some  cold 
potatoes,  and  some  tolerably  strong  beer,  composed  all  the  fare 
set  before  the  traveller. 

Despite  his  previous  boasts,  the  young  man  made  a  wry  face 
at  these  Socratic  preparations,  while  he  drew  his  chair  to  the 
board.  But  his  look  grew  more  gay  as  he  caught  Alice's  eye  ; 
and  as  she  lingered  by  the  table,  and  faltered  out  some  hesitat- 
ing words  of  apology,  he  seized  her  hand,  and  pressing  it  ten- 
derly— "  Prettiest  of  lasses,"  said  he — and  while  he  spoke  he 
gazed  on  her  with  undisguised  admiration — "  a  man  who  has 
travelled  on  foot  all  day,  through  the  ugliest  country  within  the 
three  seas,  is  sufficiently  refreshed  at  night  by  the  sight  of  so 
fair  a  face." 

Alice  hastily  withdrew  her  hand,  and  went  and  seated  herself  in 
acorner  of  the  room,  whenceshecontinued  to  look  at  the  stranger 
with  her  usual  vacant  gaze,  but  with  a  half -smile  upon  her  rosy  lips. 

Alice's  father  looked  hard  first  at  one,  then  at  the  other. 

*'  Eat,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  chuckle,  **  and  no  fine  words  ; 
poor  Alice  is  honest,  as  you  said  just  now." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  the  traveller,  employing  with  great 
zeal  a  set  of  strong,  even  and  dazzling  teeth  at  the  tough  crusts  ; 
"to  be  sure  she  is.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you  ;  but  the  fact 
is,  I  am  half  a  foreigner  ;  and  abroad,  you  know,  one  may  say  a 
civil  thing  to  a  pretty  girl  without  hurting  her  feelings,  or  her 
father's  either." 

"  Half  a  foreigner  !  why  you  talk  English  as  well  as  I  do," 
said  the  host,  whose  intonation  and  words  were,  on  the  whole, 
a  little  above  his  station. 

The  stranger  smiled.  "  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  said 
he.  "  What  I  meant  was,  that  I  have  been  a  great  deal  abroad  ;  in 
fact,  I  have  just  returned  from  Germany.  But  I  am  English-born." 

"And  going  home  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Far  from  hence  ?" 


lO  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"About  thirty  miles,  I  believe." 

"  You  are  young,  sir,  to  be  alone," 

The  traveller  made  no  answer,  but  finished  his  uninviting  re- 
past, and  drew  his  chair  again  to  the  fire.  He  then  thought  he 
had  sufficiently  ministered  to  his  host's  curiosity  to  be  entitled 
to  the  gratification  of  his  own. 

"  You  work  at  the  factories,  I  suppose  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  do,  sir.     Bad  times." 

"  And  your  pretty  daughter  ?  " 

"  Minds  the  house." 

"  Have  you  no  other  children  ?" 

"  No ;  one  mouth  beside  my  own  is  as  much  as  I  can  feed, 
and  that  scarcely.  But  you  would  like  to  rest  now ;  you  can 
have  my  bed,  sir  ;  I  can  sleep  here." 

"  By  no  means,"  said  the  stranger,  quickly  ;  "just  put  a  few 
more  coals  on  the  fire,  and  leave  me  to  make  myself  comfortable." 

The  man  rose,  and  did  not  press  his  offer,  but  left  the  room 
for  a  supply  of  fuel.     Alice  remained  in  her  corner. 

"Sweetheart  !"  said  the  traveller,  looking  round  and  satisfy- 
ing himself  that  they  were  alone,  "I  should  sleep  well  if  I  could 
get  one  kiss  from  those  coral  lips." 

Alice  hid  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Do  I  vexyou.=>" 

"  Oh  no,  sir.", 

At  this  assurance  the  traveller  rose,  and  approached  Alice 
softly.  He  drew  away  her  hands  from  her  face,  when  she  said, 
gently,  "Have  you  much  money  about  you  ?" 

"Oh,  the  mercenary  baggage  !  "  said  the  traveller  to  himself  ; 
and  then  replied,  aloud,  "  Why,  pretty  one  ? — Do  you  sell  your 
kisses  so  high,  then  ?" 

Alice  frowned,  and  tossed  the  hair  from  her  brow.  "  If  you 
have  money,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  don't  say  so  to  father. 
Don't  sleep  if  you  can  help  it.     I'm  afraid — hush — he  comes  ! " 

The  young  man  returned  to  his  seat  with  an  altered  manner. 
And  as  his  host  entered,  he  for  the  first  time  surveyed  him 
closely.  The  imperfect  glimmer  of  the  half-dying  and  single 
candle  threw  into  strong  lights  and  shades  the  marked,  rugged 
and  ferocious  features  of  the  cottager;  and  the  eye  of  the  travel- 
ler, glancing  from  the  face  to  the  limbs  and  frame,  saw  that 
whatever  of  violence  the  mind  might  design,  the  body  might 
well  execute. 

The  traveller  sank  into  a  gloomy  reverie.  The  wind  howled — 
the  rain  beat — through  the  casement  shone  no  solitary  star — all 
was  dark  and  sombre; — should  he  proceed  alone — might  he  npt 


ERNEST    MAL'lRAVr.RS.  II 

suffer  a  greater  danger  upon'that  wide  and  desert  moor — might 
not  the  liost  follow — assault  liim  in  the  dark  ?  He  had  no 
weapon,  save  a  stick.  But  within,  he  had  at  least  a  rude  resource 
in  the  large  kitchen  poker  that  was  beside  him.  At  all  events,  it 
would  be  better  to  wait  for  the  present.  He  might  at  any  time,  when 
alone,  withdraw  the  bolt  from  the  door,  and  slip  out  unobserved 

Such  was  the  fruit  of  his  meditations  while  his  host  plied  the  fire. 

"You  will  sleep  sound  to-night,"  said  hi.i  entertainer,  smiling. 

"Humph  !  Why,  I  am  over-{a.t\gued;  1  dare  say  it  will  be  an 
hour  or  two  before  I  fall  asleep;  but  when  I  once  am  asleep,  1 
sleep  like  a  rock  !  " 

"Come,  Alice,"  said  her  father,  "let  us  leave  the  gentleman. 
Good-night,  sir." 

"Good-night — good-night,"  returned  the  traveller,  yawning. 

The  father  and  daughter  disappeared  through  a  door  in  the 
corner  of  the  room.  The  guest  heard  them  ascend  the  creak- 
ing stairs — all  was  still. 

"  Fool  that  I  am,"  said  the  traveller,  to  himself,  "will  nothing 
teach  me  that  I  am  no  longer  a  student  at  Goltingen,  or  cure 
me  of  these  pedestrian  adventures?     Had  it  not  been  for  that 

girl's  blue  eyes,  I  should  be  safe  at by  this  time;  if,  indeed, 

the  grim  father  had  not  murdered  me  by  the  road.  However, 
we'll  balk  him  yet ;  another  half  hour,  and  I  am  on  the  moor; 
we  must  give  him  time.  And  in  the  meanwhile,  here  is  the  poker. 
At  the  worst  it  is  but  one  to  one;  but  the  churl  is  strongly  built." 

Although  the  traveller  thus  endeavored  to  cheer  his  courage, 
his  heart  beat  more  loudly  than  its  wont.  He  kept  his  eyes 
stationed  at  the  door  by  which  the  cottagers  had  vanished  and 
his  hand  on  the  massive  poker. 

While  the  stranger  was  thus  employed  below,  Alice,  instead  of 
turning  to  her  own  narrow  cell,  went  into  her  father's  room. 

The  cottager  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  muttering  to 
himself,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

The  girl  stood  before  him,  gazing  on  his  face,  and  with  her 
arms  lightly  crossed  above  her  bosom. 

"  It  must  be  worth  twenty  guineas,"  said  the  host,  abruptly, 
to  himself. 

"  What  is  it  to  you,  father,  what  the  gentleman's  watch  is  worth?" 

The  man  started. 

"  You  mean,"  continued  Alice,  quietly,  "  you  mean  to  do  some 
injury  to  that  young  man;  l)ut  you  shall  not !  " 

The  cottager's  face  grew  black  as  night.  "How,"  he  began 
in  a  loud  voice,  but  suddenly  dropped  the  tone  into  a  deep 
growl — "  how  dare  you  talk  to  me  so  ? — go  to  bed — go  to  bed," 


li  ERNEST    MALTR AVERS. 

"No,  father." 

"No?" 

**I  will  not  stir  from  this  room  imtil  daybreak." 

"We  will  soon  see  that,"  said  the  man  with  an  oath. 

"  Touch  me,  and  I  will  alarm  the  gentleman,  and  tell  him  that — ** 

"What?" 

The  girl  approached  her  father,  placed  her  lips  to  his  ear,  and 
whispered,  "That  you  intend  to  murder  him." 

The  cottager's  frame  trembled  from  head  to  foot;  he  shut  his 
eyes,  and  gasped  painfully  for  breath.  "Alice,"  said  he,  gently, 
after  a  pause — "Alice,  we  are  often  nearly  starving." 

"  I  am — you  never  ! " 

"  Wretch,  yes,  if  I  do  drink  too  much  one  day,  I  pinch  for  it  the 
next.  But  go  to  bed,  I  say — I  mean  no  harm  to  the  young  man. 
Think  you  1  would  twist  myself  a  rope? — no,  no ;  go  along,  go 
along." 

Alice's  face,  which  before  had  been  earnest  and  almost  in- 
telligent, now  relapsed  into  its  wonted  vacant  stare. 

"  To  be  sure,  father,  they  would  hang  you  if  you  cut  his 
throat.  Don't  forget  that ; — good-night " ;  and  so  saying,  she 
walked  to  her  own  opposite  chamber. 

Left  alone,  the  host  pressed  his  hand  tightly  to  his  forehead, 
and  remained  motionless  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

"If  that  cursed  girl  would  but  sleep,"  he  muttered  at  last, 
turning  round,  "it  might  be  done  at  once.  And  there's  the 
pond  behind,  as  deep  as  a  well;  and  I  might  say  at  daybreak 
that  the  boy  had  bolted.  He  seems  quite  a  stranger  here — no- 
body'll  miss  him.  He  must  have  plenty  of  blunt  to  give  half  a 
guinea  to  a  guide  across  a  common  !  I  want  money,  and  I  won't 
work — if  I  can  help  it,  at  least." 

While  he  thus  so'iloquized,  the  air  seemed  to  oppress  him;  he 
opened  the  window,  he  leant  out — the  rain  beat  upon  him.  He 
closed  the  window  with  an  oath;  took  off  his  shoes,  stole  to  the 
threshold,  and,  by  the  candle,  which  he  shaded  with  his  hand, 
surveyed  the  opposite  door.  It  was  closed.  He  then  bent 
anxiously  forward  and  listened. 

"All's  quiet,"  thought  he,  "perhaps  he  sleeps  already.  I  will 
steal  down.  If  Jack  Walters  would  but  come  to-night,  the  job 
would  be  done  charmingly." 

With  that  he  crept  gently  down  the  stairs.  In  a  corner,  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  lay  sundry  matters,  a  few  faggots,  and  a 
cleaver.  He  caught  up  the  last.  "Aha,"  he  muttered;  "and 
there's  the  sledge-hammer  somewhere  for  Walters."  Leaning 
himself  against  the  4oor,  he  then  applied  his  eye  to  a  chink 


ERNEST    MALRRAVEkS.  i3 

tvliich  admitted  a  dim  view  of  the  room  within,  Hghted  fitfully  by 
the  fire. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  What  have  we  here  ? 
A  carrion  death !" 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  ii.  Sc.  7. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  stranger  deemed  it  advisable 
to  commence  his  retreat.  The  slight  and  suppressed  sound  of 
voices,  which  at  first  he  had  heard  above  in  the  conversation  of 
the  father  and  child,  had  died  away.  The  stillness  at  once 
encouraged  and  warned  him.  He  stole  to  the  front  door,  softly 
undid  the  bolt,  and  found  the  door  locked,  and  the  key  missing. 
He  had  not  observed  that  during  his  repast,  and  ere  his  sus- 
picions had  been  aroused,  his  host,  in  replacing  the  bar,  and 
relocking  the  entrance,  had  abstracted  the  key.  His  fears  were 
now  confirmed.  His  next  thought  was  the  window — the  shutter 
only  protected  it  half-way,  and  was  easily  removed  ;  but  the 
aperture  of  th^  lattice,  which  only  opened  in  part  like  most 
cottage  casements,  was  far  too  small  to  admit  his  person.  His 
only  means  of  escape  was  in  breaking  the  whole  window ;  a 
matter  not  to  be  effected  without  noise  and  consequent  risk. 

He  paused  in  despair.  He  was  naturally  of  a  strong-nerved 
and  gallant  temperament,  nor  unaccustomed  to  those  perils  of 
life  and  limb,  which  German  students  delight  to  brave  ;  but 
his  heart  well-nigh  failed  him  at  that  moment.  The  silence  be- 
came distinct  and  burdensome  to  him,  and  a  chill  moisture  gath- 
ered to  his  brow.  Whil^  he  stood  irresolute  and  in  suspense, 
striving  to  collect  his  thoughts,  his  ear,  preternaturally  sharpened 
by  fear,  caught  the  faint  n;uffled  sound  of  creeping  footsteps — 
he  heard  the  stairs  creak.  The  sound  broke  the  spell.  The 
previous  vague  apprehension  gave  way,  when  the  danger  became 
actually  at  hand.  His  presence  of  mind  returned  at  once.  He 
went  back  quickly  to  the  fireplace,  seized  the  poker,  and  began 
stirring  the  fire,  and  coughing  loud,  and  indicating  as  vigor- 
ously as  possible  that  he  was  wide  awake. 

He  felt  that  he  was  watched — he  felt  that  he  was  in  momentary 
peril.  He  felt  that  the  appcnrance  of  slumber  would  be  the 
signal  for  a  mortal  conflict.  Time  passed,  all  remained  silent ; 
nearly  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he  had  heard  the  steps 
upon  the  stairs.  His  situation  began  to  prey  upon  his  nerves, 
it  irritated  them,  it  became  intolerable.  It  was  not  now  fear 
that  he  experienced,  it  was  the  overwrought  sense  of  mortal 


14  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

enmity—  the  consciousness  that  a  man  may  feel  when  he  knows 
that  the  eye  of  a  tiger  is  on  him,  and  who,  while  in  suspense 
he  has  regained  his  courage,  foresees  that  sooner  or  later  the 
spring  must  come ;  the  suspense  itself  becomes  an  agony,  and 
he  desires  to  expedite  the  deadly  struggle  he  cannot  shun. 

Utterly  incapable  any  longer  to  bear  his  own  sensations,  the 
traveller  rose  at  last,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fatal  door,  and  was 
about  to  cry  aloud  to  the  listener  to  enter,  when  he  heard  a 
slight  tap  at  the  window;  it  was  twice  repeated ;  and  at  the 
tliird  time  a  low  voice  pronounced  the  name  of  Darvil.  It  was 
clear,  then,  that  accomplices  had  arrived;  it  was  no  longer 
against  one  man  that  he  should  have  to  contend.  He  drew  his 
breath  hard,  and  listened  with  throbbing  ears.  He  heard  steps 
without  upon  the  plashing  soil;  they  retired — all  was  still. 

He  paused  a  few  minutes,  and  walked  deliberately  and  firmly 
to  the  inner  door,  at  which  he  fancied  his  host  stationed;  with 
a  steady  hand  he  attempted  to  open  the  door ;  it  was  fastened 
on  the  opposite  side.  "  So  !  "  said  he  bitterly,  and  grinding 
his  teeth;  "  I  must  die  like  a  rat  in  a  cage.  Well,  I'll  die  biting." 

He  returned  to  his  former  post,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  stood  grasping  his  homely  weapon,  prepared  for  the 
worst,  and  not  altogether  undated  with  a  proud  consciousness 
of  his  own  natural  advantages  of  activity,  stature,  strength  and 
daring.  Minutes  rolled  on  !  the  silence  was  broken  by  some  one 
at  the  inner  door ;  he  heard  the  bolt  gently  withdrawn.  He 
raised  his  weapon  with  both  hands ;  and  started  to  find  the  in- 
truder was  only  Alice.  She  came  in  with  bare  feet,  and  pale  as 
marble,  her  finger  on  her  lips. 

She  approached — she  touched  him. 

"  They  are  in  the  shed  behind,"  she  whispered,  "  looking  for  the 
sledge-hammer — they  mean  tomurderyou;getyougone — quick." 

"How? — the  door  is  locked." 

"  Stay.     I  have  taken  the  key  from  his  room." 

She  gained  the  door,  applied  the  key — the  door  yielded.  The 
traveller  threw  his  knapsack  once  more  over  his  shoulder,  and 
made  but  one  stride  to  the  threshold.  The  girl  stopped  him. 
"Don't  say  any  thingabout  it:  heismyfather,theywouldhanghim." 

"  No,  no.  But  you  ? — are  safe,  I  trust  ? — depend  on  my  grati- 
tude.— I  shall  be  at to-morrow — the  best  inn — seek  me  if 

you  can  !     Which  way  now  ?" 

"Keep  to  the  left." 

The  stranger  was  already  several  paces  distant ;  through  the 
darkness,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  rain,  he  fled  on  with  the  speed 
of  youth.     The  girl  lingered  an  instant,  sighed,  then  laughed 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I5 

aloud ;  closed  and  re-barred  the  door,  and  was  creeping  back, 
when  from  the  inner  entrance  advanced  the  grim  father,  and 
another  man,  of  broad,  short,  sinewy  frame,  his  arms  bare,  and 
wielding  a  large  hammer. 

"How?"  asked  the  host;  "Alice  here,  and — hell  and  the 
devil!  have  you  let  him  go?" 

"  I  told  you  that  you  should  not  harm  him  ! " 
With  a  violent  oath  the  ruffian  struck  hisdaughter  to  the  ground, 
sprang  over  her  body,  unbarred  the  door,  and,  accompanied  by 
his  comrade,  set  off  in  vague  pursuit  of  his  intended  victim. 


CHAPTER  in. 

"  You  knew — none  so  well,  of  my  daughter's  flight." 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  iii.  Sc.  I. 

The  day  dawned  ;  it  was  a  mild,  damp,  hazy  morning;  the 
sod  sank  deep  beneath  the  foot,  the  roads  were  heavy  with  mire, 
and  the  rain  of  the  past  night  lay  here  and  there  in  broad,  shallow 
pools.  Towards  the  town,  wagons,  carts,  pedestrian  groups^ 
were  already  moving ;  and,  now  and  then,  you  caught  the  sharp 
horn  of  some  early  coach,  wheeling  its  be-cloaked  outside  and  be- 
nightcapped  inside  passengers  along  the  northern  thoroughfares. 

A  young  man  bounded  over  a  stile  into  the  road  just  opposite 
to  the  mile-stone,  that  declared  him  to  be  one  mile  from . 

"Thank  Heaven !"  he  said,  almost  aloud.  "After  spending 
the  night  wandering  about  morasses  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  I 
approach  a  town  at  last.  Thank  Heaven,  again,  and  for  all  its 
mercies  this  night !     I  breathe  freely.     I  am  safe." 

He  walked  on  somewhat  rapidly  ;  he  passed  a  slow  wagon — 
he  passed  a  group  of  mechanics — he  passed  a  drove  of  sheep, 
and  now  he  saw  walking  leisurely  before  him  a  single  figure.  It 
was  a  girl,  in  a  worn  and  humble  dress,  who  seemed  to  seek  her 
weary  way  with  pain  and  languor.  He  was  about  also  to  pass 
her,  when  he  heard  a  low  cry.  He  turned,  and  beheld  in  the 
wayfarer  his  preserver  of  the  previous  night. 

*'  Heavens  !  is  it  indeed  you  ?     Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?" 

"I  was  coming  to  seek  you,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  faintly.  "I 
too  have  escaped  ;  I  shall  never  go  back  to  father ;  I  have  no 
roof  to  cover  my  head  now." 

"  Poor  child  !  but  how  is  this  ?  Did  they  ill-use  you  for  re- 
leasing me  ?" 

"  Father  knocked  me  down,  and  beat  me  again  when  he  came 
back :  but  that  is  not  all,"  she  added,  in  a  very  low  tone. 


1 6  ERNEST    MALT  HAVERS, 

"What  else?" 

The  girl  grew  red  and  white  by  turns.  She  set  her  teeth 
rigidly,  stopped  short,  and  then  walking  on  quicker  than  before, 
replied — *'  It  don't  matter ;  I  will  never  go  back — I'm  alone 
now.     What,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  and  she  wrung  her  hands. 

The  traveller's  pity  was  deeply  moved.  "  My  good  girl,"  said 
he, earnestly,  "you  have  saved  my  life, and  I  am  not  ungrateful. 
Here"  (and  he  placed  some  gold  in  her  hand),  "get  yourself  a 
lodging,  food  and  rest ;  you  look  as  if  you  wanted  them  ;  and 
see  me  again  this  evening  when  it  is  dark,  and  we  can  talk  un- 
observed." 

The  girl  took  the  money  passively,  and  looked  up  in  his  face 
while  he  spoke ;  the  look  was  so  unsuspecting,  and  the  whole 
countenance  was  so  beautifully  modest  and  virgin-like,  that  had 
any  evil  passion  prompted  the  traveller's  last  words,  it  must  have 
fled  scared  and  abashed  as  he  met  the  gaze, 

"  My  poor  girl,"  said  he,  embarrassed,  and  after  a  short  pause  ; 
"you  are  very  young,  and  very,  very  pretty.  In  this  town  you 
will  be  exposed  to  many  temptations ;  take  care  where  you 
lodge  ;  you  have,  no  doubt,  friends  here?" 

"Friends? — what  are  friends?"  answered  Alice. 

"  Have  you  no  relations  ;  no  mother's  kin  ?  " 

"None," 

"Do  you  know  where  to  ask  shelter?" 

"No,  sir;  for  I  can't  go  where  father  goes,  lest  he  should  find 
me  out." 

"Well,  then,  seek  some  quiet  inn,  and  meet  me  this  evening, 
just  here,  half  a  mile  from  the  town,  at  seven.  I  will  try  and 
think  of  something  for  you  in  the  meanwhile.  But  you  seem 
tired,  you  walk  with  pain  ;  perhaps  it  will  fatigue  you  to  come — 
I  mean,  you  had  rather  perhaps  rest  another  day." 

"Oh,  no,  no  !  it  will  do  me  good  to  see  you  again,  sir." 

The  young  man's  eyes  met  hers,  and  hers  were  not  withdrawn  ; 
their  soft  blue  was  suffused  with  tears — they  penetrated  his  soul. 

He  turned  away  hastily,  and  saw  that  they  were  already  the 
subject  of  curious  observation  to  the  various  passengers  that 
overtook  them,  "Don't  forget!"  he  whispered,  and  strode  on 
with  a  pace  that  soon  brought  him  to  the  town. 

He  inquired  for  the  principal  hotel — entered  it  with  an  air 
that  bespoke  that  nameless  consciousness  of  superiority  which 
belongs  to  those  accustomed  to  purchase  welcome  wherever 
welcome  is  bought  and  sold — and  before  a  blazing  fire  and  no 
unsubstantial  breakfast,  forgot  all  the  terrors  of  the  past  night, 
pr  rather  felt  rejoiced  to  think  that  he  added  added  a  new  and 


ERNfiSt   MALtRAVERS.  17 

strange  hazard  to  the  catalogue  of  adventure  already  experi- 
enced by  Ernest  Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Con  una  Dama  tenia 
Un  galan  conversacion."  * 

Moratin:  El  Teatro  Espatwl. — Num.  15, 

Maltravers  was  first  at  the  appointed  place.  His  character 
was  in  most  respects  singularly  energetic,  decided,  and  prema- 
ture in  development ;  but  not  so  in  regard  to  women:  with  them 
he  was  the  creature  of  the  moment  ;  and,  driven  to  and  fro  by 
whatever  impulse,  or  whatever  passion,  caught  the  caprice  of  a 
wild,  roving,  and  all-poetical  imagination,  Maltravers  was,  half- 
unconsciously,  a  poet — a  poet  of  action,  and  woman  was  his 
muse. 

He  had  formed  no  plan  of  conduct  towards  the  poor  girl  he 
was  to  meet.  He  meant  no  harm  to  her.  If  she  had  been  less 
handsome,  he  would  have  been  equally  grateful ;  and  her  dress, 
and  youth,  and  condition,  would  equally  have  compelled  him 
to  select  the  hour  of  dusk  for  an  interview. 

He  arrived  at  the  spot.  The  winter  night  had  already  de- 
scended; but  a  sharp  frost  had  set  in  :  the  air  was  clear,  the  stars 
were  bright,  and  the  long  shadows  slept,  still  and  calm,  along 
the  broad  road,  and  whitened  fields  beyond. 

He  walked  briskly  to  and  fro,  without  much  thought  of  the 
interview,  or  its  object,  half  chanting  old  verses,  German  and 
English,  to  himself,  and  stopping  to  gaze  every  moment  at  the 
silent  stars. 

At  length  he  saw  Alice  approach  :  she  came  up  to  him  timidly 
and  gently.  His  heart  beat  more  quickly  ;  he  felt  that  he  was 
young  and  alone  with  beauty.  "  Sweet  girl,"  he  said,  with  in- 
voluntary and  mechanical  compliment, "how  well  this  light  be- 
comes you  !     How  shall  I  thank  you  for  not  forgetting  me  ?  " 

Alice  surrendered  her  hand  to  his  without  a  struggle. 

"  VVh«t  is  your  name?  "said  he,  bending  his  face  down  to  hers. 

"Aliae  Darvil." 

"And  your  terrible  father, — is  he,  in  truth,  your  father  ?" 

"Indeed  he  is  my  father  and  mother  too  !" 

"What  made  you  suspect  his  intention  to  murder  me  ?  Has 
he  ever  attempted  the  like  crime?" 

"No;  but  lately  he  has  often  talked  of  robbery.  He  is  very 
poor,  sir.  And  when  I  saw  his  eye,  and  when  afterwards,  while 

♦  With  a  dame  he  held  a  gallant  conversation. 


iS  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

your  back  was  turned,  he  took  the  key  from  the  door,  I  felt 
that — that  you  were  in  danger." 

"  Good  girl — go  on." 

"  I  told  him  so  when  we  went  upstairs.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  believe,  when  he  said  he  would  not  hurt  you;  but  I  stole  the 
key  of  the  front  door,  which  he  had  thrown  on  the  table,  and 
went  to  my  room.  I  listened  at  my  door;  I  heard  him  go  down- 
stairs :  he  stopped  therefor  some  time;  and  I  watched  him  from 
above.  The  place  where  he  was  opened  to  the  field  by  the  back- 
way.  After  some  time,  I  heard  a  voice  whisper  him:  I  knew  the 
voice,  and  then  they  both  went  out  by  the  back  way;  so  I  stole 
down,  and  I  went  out  and  listened;  and  I  knew  the  other  man 
was  John  Walters.  I'm  afraid  of  him,  sir.  And  then  Walters 
said,  says  he,  *I  will  get  the  hammer,  and,  sleep  or  wake,  we'll 
do  it.'  And  father  said, '  It's  in  the  shed.'  So  I  saw  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  sir,  and — and — but  you  know  all  the  rest." 

"  But  how  did  you  escape  ? " 

**  Oh,  my  father,  after  talking  to  Walters,  came  to  my  room, 
and  beat  and — and — frightened  me ;  and  when  he  was  gone  to 
bed,  I  put  on  my  clothes,  and  stole  out ;  it  was  just  light  ;  and 
walked  on  till  I  met  you." 

"Poor  child,  in  what  a  den  of  vice  have  you  been  brought  up! " 

"  Anan,  sir." 

"  She  don't  understand  me.  Have  you  been  taught  to  read  and 
write  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!" 

"But  I  suppose  you  have  been  taught,  at  least,  to  say  your 
catechism — and  you  pray  sometimes  ?  " 

"I  have  prayed  to  father  not  to  beat  me." 

"But  to  God?" 

"  God,  sir  !— what  is  that  ?  "  * 

Maltravers  drew  back  shocked  and  appalled.  Premature 
philosopher  as  he  was,  this  depth  of  ignorance  perplexed  his 
wisdom.  He  had  read  all  the  disputes  of  schoolmen,  whether  or 
not  the  notion  of  a  Supreme  Being  is  innate  :  but  he  had  never 
before  been  brought  face  to  face  with  a  living  creature  who  was 
unconscious  of  a  God. 

After  a  pause  he  said — "  AJy  poor  girl,  we  misunderstand  each 
other.     You  know  that  there  is  a  God?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

♦  Thk  i^orance— indeed  the  whole  sketch  of  Alice — is  from  life  ;  nor  is  such  ignorance, 
accompanied  by  what  almost  seems  .an  instinctive  or  intuitive  notion  of  right  or  wrong, 
very  uncommon,  as  our  police  reports  can  testify.  In  the  "Examiner"  for,  I  think,  the 
year  1815.  will  be  found  the  case  of  a  young  girl  [ill-treated  by  her  father,  whose  answers  t« 
the  interrogatories  of  the  magistrate  are  very  similar  to  those  of  Alice  to,the  questions 
9f  Maltravers, 


ERNEST   MALTRAVEHS.  I9 

"Did  no  one  ever  tell  you  who  made  the  stars  you  now  sur- 
vey— the  earth  on  which  you  tread  ? " 

"No." 

"  And  have  you  never  thought  of  it  yourself?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  What  has  that  to  do  with  being  cold  and 
hungry?" 

Maltravers  looked  incredulous. — "You  see  that  great  build- 
ing, with  the  spire  rising  in  the  starlight?" 

"Yes,  sir,  sure." 

"What  is  it  called?" 

*' Why,  a  church." 

"  Did  you  never  go  into  it  ? " 

"  No." 

"  What  do  people  do  there  ?" 

"  Father  says  one  man  talks  nonsense,  and  the  other  folk  listen 
to  him." 

"Your  father  is — no  matter.  Good  Heavens  !  what  shall  I 
do  with  this  unhappy  child?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  very  unhappy,"  said  Alice,  catching  at  the 
last  words ;  and  the  tears  rolled  silently  down  her  cheeks. 

Maltravers  was  never  more  touched  in  his  life.  Whatever 
thouglits  of  gallantry  might  have  entered  his  young  head,  had  he 
■  found  Alice  such  as  he  might  reasonably  have  expected,  he  now 
felt  there  was  a  kind  of  sanctity  in  her  ignorance;  and  hisgrati- 
tude  and  kindly  sentiment  towards  her  took  almost  a  brotherly 
aspect. — "  You  know,  at  least,  Avhat  school  is?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  have  talked  with  girls  who  go  to  school." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  there,  too?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — pray  not !  " 

"What  would  you  like  to  do,  then? — Speak  out,  child.  I  owe 
you  so  much,  that  I  should  be  too  happy  to  make  you  comfort- 
able and  contented  in  your  own  way." 

"I  should  like  to  live  with  you,  sir."  Maltravers  started,  and 
half  smiled,  and  colored.  But  looking  on  her  eyes,  which  were 
fixed  earnestly  on  his,  there  was  so  much  artlessness  in  their 
soft,  unconscious  gaze,  that  he  saw  she  was  wholly  ignorant  of 
the  interpretation  that  might  be  put  upon  so  Candida  confession. 

I  have  said  that  Maltravers  was  a  wild,  enthusiastic, odd  being — 
he  was  in  fact,  full  of  strange  German  romance  and  metaphysi- 
cal speculations.  He  had  once  shut  himself  up  for  months  to 
study  astrology — and  had  even  been  suspected  of  a  serious  hunt 
after  the  philosopher's  stone;  another  time  he  had  narrowly  es- 
caped with  life  and  liberty  from  a  frantic  conspiracy  of  the 
young  republicans  of  his  university,  in  which  being  bolder  and 


26  fekNEST    MALTRAVER5. 

madder  than  most  of  them,  he  had  been  an  active  ringleader ; 
it  was,  indeed,  some  such  folly  that  had  compelled  him  to  quit 
Germany  sooner  than  himself  or  his  parents  desired.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  sober  Englishman  about  him.  Whatever  was 
strange  and  eccentric  had  an  irresistible  charm  for  Ernest  Mal- 
travers.  And  agreeably  to  this  disposition,  he  now  resolved  an 
idea  that  enchanted  his  mobile  and  fantastic  philosophy.  He 
himself  would  educate  this  charming  girl — he  would  write  fair 
and  heavenly  characters  upon  this  blank  page — he  would  act 
the  Saint  Preux  to  this  Julie  of  Nature.  Alas,  he  did  not  think 
of  the  result  which  the  parallel  should  have  suggested  !  At 
that  age,  Ernest  Maltravers  never  damped  the  ardor  of  an  ex- 
periment by  the  anticipation  of  consequences. 

"So,"  he  said,  after  a  short  reverie,  "so  you  would  like  to  live 
with  me  ?  But,  Alice,  we  must  not  fall  in  love  with  each  other." 

"  I  don't  understand,  sir." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Maltravers,  a  little  disconcerted. 

"  I  always  wished  to  go  into  service." 

"  Ha !  " 

"And  you  would  be  a  kind  master." 

Maltravers  was  half  disenchanted. 

"No  very  flattering  preference,"  thought  he  :  "so  much  the 
safer  for  us.  Well,  Alice,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish.  Are  you 
comfortable  where  you  are,  in  your  new  lodging  ?  " 

"  No ! " 

"  Why,  they  do  not  insult  you  ?  " 

"No ;  but  they  make  a  noise,  and  I  like  to  be  quiet  to  think 
of  you ! " 

The  young  philosopher  was  reconciled  again  to  the  scheme. 

"Well,  Alice — go  back — I  will  take  a  cottage  to-morrow,  and 
you  shall  be  my  servant,  and  I  will  teach  you  to  read  and  write, 
and  say  your  prayers,  and  know  that  you  have  a  Father  above  who 
loves  you  better  than  he  below.  Meet  me  again  at  the  same  hour 
to-morrow.   Why  do  you  cry,  Alice  ?  why  do  you  cry  ?  " 

"  Because — because,"  sobbed  the  girl,  "  I  am  so  happy,  and  I 
shall  live  with  you  and  see  you." 

"Go,  child — go,  child,"  said  Maltravers,  hastily;  and  he 
walked  away  with  a  quicker  pulse  than  became  his  new  char- 
acter of  master  and  preceptor. 

He  looked  back,  and  saw  the  girl  gazing  at  him:  he  waved  his 
hand, and  she  moved  on  and  slowly  followed  him  back  to  the  town. 

Maltravers,  though  not  an  elder  son,  was  the  heir  of  affluent 
fortunes;  he  enjoyed  a  munificent  allowance  that  sufficed  for  the 
whims  of  a  youth  who  had  learned  in  Germany  none  of  the  ex- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  21 

travagant  notions  common  to  young  Englishmen  of  similar  birth 
and  prospects.  He  was  a  spoiled  child,  with  no  law  but  his  own 
fancy, — his  return  home  was  not  expected, — there  was  nothing  to 
])revent  the  indulgence  of  his  new  caprice.  The  next  day  he  hired 
a  cottage  in  the  neighborhood,  which  was  one  of  those  pretty 
thatched  edifices,  with  verandahs  and  monthly  roses,  a  conserv- 
atory and  a  lawn,  which  justify  the  English  proverb  about  a  cot- 
tage and  love.  It  had  been  built  by  a  mercantile  bachelor  for 
some  fair  Rosamund,  and  did  credit  to  his  taste.  An  old  woman, 
let  with  the  house,  was  to  cook  and  do  the  work.  Alice  was  but 
a  nominal  servant.  Neither  the  old  woman  nor  the  landlord  com- 
prehended the  Platonic  intentions  of  the  young  stranger.  But 
he  paid  his  rent  in  advance,  and  they  were  not  particular.  He, 
however,  thought  it  prudent  to  conceal  his  name.  It  was  one 
sure  to  be  known  in  a  town  not  very  distant  from  the  residence 
of  his  father,  a  wealthy  and  long-descended  country  gentleman. 
He  adopted,  therefore,  the  common  name  of  Butler;  which,  in- 
deed, belonged  to  one  of  his  maternal  connections,  and  by  that 
name  alone  was  he  known  both  in  the  neighborhood  and  to  Alice. 
From  her  he  would  not  have  sought  concealment, — but  somehow 
or  other  no  occasion  ever  presented  itself  to  induce  him  to  talk 
much  to  her  of  his  parentage  or  birth. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise." — Gray. 

Maltravers  found  Alice  as  docile  a  pupil  as  any  reasonable 
preceptor  might  have  desired.  But  still,  reading  and  writing — 
they  are  very  uninteresting  elements  !  Had  the  groundwork  been 
laid,  it  might  have  been  delightful  to  raise  the  fairy  palace  of 
knowledge  ;  but  the  digging  the  foundations  and  the  construct- 
ing the  cellars  is  weary  labor.  Perhaps  he  felt  it  so, — for  in  a 
few  days  Alice  was  handed  over  to  the  very  oldest  and  ugliest 
writing-master  that  the  neighboring  town  could  afford.  The 
poor  girl  at  first  wept  much  at  the  exchange ;  but  the  grave  re- 
monstrances and  solemn  exhortations  of  Maltravers  reconciled 
her  at  last,  and  she  promised  to  work  hard  and  pay  every  atten- 
tion to  her  lessons.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  it  was  the 
tedium  of  the  work  that  deterred  the  idealist — perhaps  he  felt 
its  danger — and  at  the  bottom  of  his  sparkling  dreams  and 
brilliant  follies  lay  a  sound,  generous,  and  noble  heart.  He  was 
fond  of  pleasure,  and  had  been  already  the  darling  of  the  senti- 


22  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

mental  German  ladies.  But  he  was  too  young  and  too  vivid,  and 
too  romantic,  to  be  what  is  called  a  sensualist.  He  could  not 
look  upon  a  fair  face,  and  a  guileless  smile,  and  all  the  ineffable 
symmetry  of  a  woman's  shape,  with  the  eye  of  a  man  buying 
cattle  for  base  uses.  He  very  easily  fell  in  love,  or  fancied  he 
did,  it  is  true, — but  then  he  could  not  separate  desire  from 
fancy,  or  calculate  the  game  of  passion  without  bringing  the 
heart  or  the  imagination  into  the  matter.  And  though  Alice  was 
very  pretty  and  very  engaging,  he  was  not  yet  in  love  with  her, 
and  he  had  no  intention  of  becoming  so. 

He  felt  the  evening  somewhat  long,  when  for  the  first  time 
Alice  discontinued  her  usual  lesson  ;  but  Maltravershad  abun- 
dant resources  in  himself.  He  placed  Shakespeare  and  Schiller 
on  his  table,  and  lighted  his  German  meerschaum — he  read  till 
he  became  inspired,  and  then  he  wrote — and  when  he  had  com- 
posed a  few  stanzas  he  was  not  contented  till  he  had  set  them  to 
music,  and  tried  their  melody  with  his  voice.  For  he  had  all 
the  passion  of  a  German  for  song  and  music — that  wild  Mal- 
travers  ! — and  his  voice  was  sweet,  his  taste  consummate,  his 
science  profound.  As  the  sun  puts  out  a  star,  so  the  full  blaze 
of  his  imagination,  fairly  kindled,  extinguished  for  the  lime  his 
fairy  fancy  for  his  beautiful  pupil. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Maltravers  went  to  bed — and  as 
he  passed  through  the  narrow  corridor  that  led  to  his  chamber, 
he  heard  a  light  step  flying  before  him,  and  caught  the  glimpse 
of  a  female  figure  escaping  through  a  distant  door.  "The  silly 
child,"  thought  he,  at  once  divining  the  cause;  "she  has  been 
listening  to  my  singing.  I  shall  scold  her."  But  he  forgot 
that  resolution. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  many  days  passed,  and  Mal- 
travers saw  but  little  of  the  pupil  for  whose  sake  he  had  shut 
himself  up  in  a  country  cottage,  in  the  depth  of  winter.  Still  he 
did  not  repent  his  purpose,  nor  was  he  in  the  least  tired  of  his 
seclusion — he  would  not  inspect  Alice's  progress,  for  he  was 
certain  he  should  be  dissatisfied  with  its  slowness — and  peop'_-, 
however  handsome,  cannot  learn  to  read  and  write  in  a  day. 
But  he  amused  himself,  notwithstanding.  He  was  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  forhe  was  at  one 
of  those  periodical  epochs  of  life  when  we  like  to  pause  and 
breathe  awhile,  in  brief  respite  from  that  methodical  race  in 
which  we  run  to  the  grave.  He  wished  to  re-collect  the  stores 
of  his  past  experience,  and  repose  on  his  own  mind,  before  he 
started  afresh  upon  the  active  world.  The  weather  was  cold  and 
jncl^nnent  j  but  Ernest  Maltravers  was  a  hardy  lover  of  nature 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  23 

and  neither  snow  nor  frost  could  detain  him  from  his  daily  ram- 
bles. So  about  noon,  he  regularly  threw  aside  books  and  papers, 
and  took  his  hat  and  staff,  and  went  whistling  or  humming  his 
favorite  airs  through  the  dreary  streets,  or  along  the  bleak  waters, 
or  amidst  the  leafless  woods,  just  as  the  humor  seized  him  ;  for 
he  was  not  an  Edwin  or  Harold,  who  reserved  speculation  only 
for  lonely  brooks  and  pastoral  hills.  MaUravers  delighted  to 
contemplate  nature  in  men  as  well  as  in  sheep  or  trees.  The 
humblest  alley  in  a  crowded  town  had  something  poetical  for 
him;  he  was  ever  ready  to  mix  in  a  crowd,  if  it  were  only  gath- 
ered round  a  barrel-organ  or  a  dog-fight,  and  listen  to  all  that 
was  said,  and  notice  all  that  was  done.  And  this  I  take  to  be 
the  true  poetical  temperament  essential  to  every  artist  who 
aspires  to  be  something  more  than  a  scene-painter.  But,  above 
all  things,  he  was  most  interested  in  any  display  of  human  pas- 
sions or  affections;  beloved  to  see  the  true  colors  of  the  heart, 
where  they  are  most  transparent — in  the  uneducated  and  poor — 
for  he  was  something  of  an  optimist,  and  had  a  hearty  faith  in 
the  loveliness  of  our  nature.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  owed  much  of 
the  insight  into  and  mastery  over  character  that  he  was  after- 
wards considered  to  display,  to  his  disbelief  that  there  is  any 
wickedness  so  dark  as  not  to  be  susceptible  of  the  light  in  some 
place  or  another.  But  Maltravers  had  his  fits  of  unsociability, 
and  then  nothing  but  the  most  solitary  scenes  delighted  him. 
Winter  or  summer,  barren  waste  or  prodigal  verdure,  all  had 
beauty  in  his  eyes;  for  their  beauty  lay  in  his  own  soul,  through 
which  he  beheld  them.  From  these  walkshe  would  return  home 
at  dusk,  take  his  simple  meal,  rhyme  or  read  away  the  long 
evenings  with  such  alternation  as  music  or  the  dreamy  thoughts 
of  a  young  man  with  a  gay  life  before  him  could  afford.  Happy 
Maltravers! — youth  and  genius  have  luxuries  all  the  Rothschilds 
cannot  purchase  !  And  yet,  Maltravers,  you  are  ambitious!  — 
life  moves  too  slowly  for  you  ! — you  would  push  on  tiie  wheels 
of  the  clock  ! — Fool — brilliant  fool ! — you  are  eighteen  and  a 
poet ! — What  more  can  you  desire? — Bid  Time  stop  forever  ! 

One  morning  Ernest  rose  earlier  than  his  wont,  and  sauntered 
carelessly  through  the  conservatory  which  adjoined  his  sitting- 
room;  observing  the  plants  with  placid  curiosity  (for  besides 
being  a  little  of  a  botanist,  he  had  odd  visionary  notions  about 
the  life  of  plants,  and  he  saw  in  them  a  hundred  mysteries  which 
the  herbalists  do  not  teach  us),  when  he  heard  a  low  and  very 
musical  voice  singing  at  a  little  distance.  He  listened,  and  recog- 
nized, with  surprise,  words  of  his  own,  which  he  had  lately  set 
tp  musicj  and  was  sufficiently^  pleased  with  to  sing  nightly. 


24  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

When  the  song  ended,  Maltravers  stole  softly  through  the  con- 
servatory, and  as  he  opened  the  door  which  led  into  the  garden, 
he  saw  at  the  open  window  of  a  little  room  which  was  appor- 
tioned to  Alice  and  jutted  out  from  the  building  in  the  fanciful 
irregularity  common  to  ornamental  cottages,  the  formof  his  dis- 
carded pupil.  She  did  not  observe  him,  and  it  was  not  till  he 
twice  called  her  by  name  that  she  started  from  her  thoughtful 
and  melancholy  posture. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  gently,  "put  on  your  bonnet,  and  Avalkwith 
me  in  the  garden  ;  you  look  pale,  child  ;  the  fresh  air  will  do 
you  good." 

Alice  colored  and  smiled,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  by  his 
side.  Maltravers,  meanwhile,  had  gone  in  and  lighted  his  meer- 
schaum, for  it  was  his  great  inspirer  whenever  his  thoughts  were 
perplexed,  or  he  felt  his  usual  fluency  likely  to  fail  him,  and  such 
was  the  case  now.  With  this  faithful  ally  he  awaited  Alice  in  the 
little  walk  that  circled  the  lawn,  amidst  shrubs  and  evergreens. 

"Alice,"  said  he  after  a  pause;  but  he  stopped  short. 

Alice  looked  up  at  him  with  grave  respect. 

"Tush  !"  said  Maltravers  ;  "perhaps  the  smoke  is  unpleasant 
to  you.     It  is  a  bad  habit  of  mine." 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Alice  ;  and  she  seemed  disappointed. 
Maltravers  paused,  and  picked  up  a  snowdrop. 

"It  is  pretty,"  he  said  ;  "do  you  love  flowers?" 

"Oh,  dearly,"  answered  Alice,  with  some  enthusiasm  ;  "I 
never  saw  many  till  I  came  here." 

"  Now  then,  I  can  go  on,"  thought  Maltravers ;  why  I  cannot 
say,  for  I  do  not  see  the  sequiturj  but  on  he  went  in  medias  res. 
"Alice,  you  sing  charmingly." 

"Ah  !  sir — you — you — "  she  stopped  abruptly,  andtremblad 
visibly. 

"Yes,  I  overheard  you,  Alice." 

"  And  you  are  angry?" 

"I ! — Heaven  forbid  !  It  is  a  talent,  but  you  don't  know  what 
that  is ;  I  mean  that  it  is  an  excellent  thing  to  have  an  ear,  and 
a  voice,  and  a  heart  for  music  ;  and  you  have  all  three." 

He  paused,  for  he  felt  his  hand  touched  ;  Alice  suddenly 
clasped  and  kissed  it.  Maltravers  thrilled  through  his  whole 
frame  ;  but  there  was  something  in  the  gii^l's  look  that  showed 
she  was  wholly  unaware  that  she  had  committed  an  unmaidenly 
or  forward  action. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  be  angry,"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes 
as  she  dropped  his  hand;  "and  now  I  suppose  you  know  all." 

"All!" 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  25 

"Yes  ;  how  I  listened  to  you  every  evening,  and  lay  awake 
the  whole  night  with  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears,  till  I  tried  to 
go  over  it  myself ;  and  so  at  last  I  ventured  to  sing  aloud.  I 
like  that  much  better  than  learning  to  read." 

All  this  was  delightful  to  Maltravers  ;  the  girl  had  touched 
upon  one  of  his  weak  points  ;  however,  he  remained  silent. 
Alice  continued — 

"And  now,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  let  me  come  and  sit  outside  the 
door  every  evening  and  hear  you  ;  I  will  make  no  noise — I  will 
be  so  quiet." 

"  What,  in  that  cold  corridor,  these  bitter  nights?" 

"I  am  used  to  cold,  sir.  Father  would  not  let  me  have  a  fire 
when  he  was  not  at  home." 

"  No,  Alice,  but  you  shall  come  into  the  room  while  I  play, 
and  I  will  give  you  a  lesson  or  two.  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good 
an  ear  ;  it  may  be  a  means  of  your  earning  your  own  honest  live- 
lihood when  you  leave  me." 

"When  I — but  I  never  intend  to  leave  you,  sir !"  said  Alice, 
beginning  fearfully  and  ending  calmly. 

Maltravers  had  recourse  to  the  meerschaum. 

Luckily,  perhaps,  at  this  time,  they  were  joined  by  Mr.  Sim- 
cox,  the  old  writing-master.  Alice  went  in  to  prepare  her  books; 
but  Maltravers  laid  his  hand  upon  the  preceptor's  shoulder. 

"  You  have  a  quick  pupil,  I  hope,  sir,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  very,  very,  Mr.  Butler.  She  comes  on  famously.  She 
practices  a  great  deal  when  I  am  away,  and  I  do  my  best." 

"  And,"  asked  Maltravers,  in  a  grave  tone,  "have  you  succeeded 
in  instilling  into  the  poor  child's  mind  some  of  those  more 
sacred  notions  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  in  our  first  meeting?" 

"Why,  sir,  she  was  indeed  quite  a  heathen — quite  a  Mahome- 
tan, I  may  say;  but  she  is  a  little  better  now." 

"  What  have  you  taught  her  ?  " 

"  That  God  made  her." 

"That  is  a  great  step." 

"And  that  He  loves  good  girls,  and  will  watch  over  them." 

"Bravo!     You  beat  Plato." 

"  No,  sir,  I  never  beat  any  one  except  little  Jack  Turner;  but 
he  is  a  dunce." 

"  Bah!     What  else  do  you  teach  her  ?  " 

"  That  the  devil  runs  away  with  bad  girls,  and — " 

"  Stop  there,  Mr.  Sfmcox.  Nevermind  the  devil  yet  awhile. 
Let  her  first  learn  to  do  good,  that  God  may  love  her;  the  rest 
will  follow.  I  would  rather  make  people  religious  through  their 
best  feelings  than  their  worst, — through  their  gratitude  and  af- 


46  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

fections,  rather  than  their  fears  and  calculations  of  risk  and 
punishment." 

Mr.  Simcox  stared. 

"  Does  she  say  her  prayers  ?  " 

"  I  have  tauglit  her  a  short  one." 

"Did  slie  learn  it  readily  ?" 

"  Lord  love  her,  yes  !  When  I  told  her  she  ought  to  pray  to 
God  to  bless  her  benefactor,  she  would  not  rest  till  I  had  re- 
peated a  prayer  out  of  our  Sunday-school  book,  and  she  got  it 
by  heart  at  once." 

"Enough,  Mr.  Simcox.     I  will  not  detain  you  longer." 

Forgetful  of  his  untasted  breakfast,  Maltravers  continued  his 
meerschaum  and  his  reflections:  he  did  not  cease,  till  he  had 
convinced  himself  that  he  was  but  doing  his  duty  to  Alice,  by 
teaching  her  to  cultivate  the  charming  talent  she  evidently  pos- 
sessed, and  through  which  she  might  secure  her  own  independ- 
ence. He  fancied  that  he  should  thus  relieve  himself  of  a  charge 
and  responsibility  which  often  perplexed  him.  Alice  would 
leave  him,  enabled  to  walk  the  world  in  an  honest  professional 
path.  It  was  an  excellent  idea.  "  But  there  is  danger,"  whispered 
Conscience.  "  Aye,"  answered  Philosophy  and  Pride,  those  wise 
dupes  that  are  always  so  solemn,  and  always  so  taken  in;  "but 
what  is  virtue  without  trial  ?  " 

And  now  every  evening,  when  the  windows  were  closed,  and 
the  hearth  burnt  clear,  while  the  winds  stormed,  and  the  rain 
beat  without,  a  lithe  and  lovely  shape  hovered  about  the  student's 
chamber;  and  his  wild  songs  were  sung  by  a  voice  which  Nature 
had  made  even  sweeter  than  his  own. 

Alice's  talent  for  music  was  indeed  surprising;  enthusiastic 
and  quick  as  he  himself  was  in  all  he  undertook,  Maltravers  was 
amazed  at  her  rapid  progress.  He  soon  taught  her  to  play  by 
ear;  and  Maltravers  could  not  but  notice  that  her  hand,  always 
delicate  in  shape,  had  lost  the  rude  color  and  roughness  of  labor. 
He  thought  of  that  pretty  hand  more  often  than  he  ought  to 
have  done,  and  guided  it  over  the  keys  when  it  could  have 
found  its  way  very  well  without  him. 

On  coming  to  the  cottage,  he  had  directed  the  old  servant  to 
provide  suitable  and  proper  clothes  for  Alice;  but  now  that  she 
was  admitted  "to  sit  with  the  gentleman,"  the  crone  had  the 
sense,  without  waiting  for  new  order.s,  to  buy  the  "  pretty  young 
woman"  garments,  still  indeed  simple,  but  of  better  materials, 
and  less  rustic  fashion;  and  Alice's  redundant  tresses  were  now 
carefully  arranged  into  orderly  and  glossy  curls,  and  even  the 
texture  was  no  longer  the   same;  and  happiness  and  health 


ERNEST   MALTkAVERS.  4? 

bloomed  on  her  downy  cheeks,  and  smiled  from  the  dewy  lips, 
which  never  quite  closed  over  the  fresh  white  teeth,  except  when 
slie  was  sad; — but  that  seemed  never,  now  she  was  not  banished 
from  Maltravers. 

To  say  nothing  of  the  unusual  grace  and  delicacy  of  Alice's 
form  and  features,  there  is  nearly  always  something  of  Nature's 
own  gentility  in  very  young  women  (except,  indeed,  when  they 
get  together  and  fall  a-giggling);  it  shames  us  men  to  see  how 
much  sooner  they  are  polished  into  conventional  shape  than  our 
rough,  masculine  angels.  A  vulgar  boy  requires  Heaven  knows 
what  assiduity  to  move  three  steps — I  do  not  say  like  a  gentle- 
man, but  like  a  body  that  has  a  soul  in  it;  but  give  the  least  ad- 
vantage of  society  or  tuition  to  a  peasant  girl,  and  a  hundred  to 
one  she  will  glide  into  refinement  before  the  boy  can  make  a 
bow  without  upsetting  the  table.  There  is  sentiment  in  all  women, 
and  sentiment  gives  delicacy  to  thought,  and  tact  to  manner. 
But  sentiment  with  men  is  generally  acquired,  an  oft  pring  of 
the  intellectual  quality,  not,  as  with  the  other  sex,  of  the  moral. 

In  the  course  of  his  musical  and  vocal  lessons,  Maltravers 
gently  took  the  occasion  to  correct  poor  Alice's  frequent  offences 
against  grammar  and  accent:  and  her  memory  was  prodigiously 
quick  and  retentive.  The  very  tones  of  her  voice  seemed  altered 
in  the  ear  of  Maltravers;  and,  somehow  or  other,  the  time  came 
when  he  was  no  longer  sensible  of  the  difference  in  their  rank. 

The  old  woman-servant,  when  she  had  seen  how  it  would  be 
from  the  first,  and  taken  a  pride  in  her  own  prophecy,  as  she  or- 
dered Alice's  new  dresses,  was  a  much  better  philosopher  than 
Maltravers;  though  he  was  already  up  to  his  ears  in  the  moon- 
lit abyss  of  Plato;  and  had  filled  a  dozen  commonplace  books 
with  criticisms  on  Kant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Young  man,  I  fear  thy  blood  is  rosy  red, 
Thy  heart  is  soft." 

D'Aguilar's  Fiesco,  Act  iii.  Sc.  i. 

As  education  does  not  consist  in  reading  and  writing  only,  so 
Alice,  while  still  very  backward  in  those  elementary  arts,  fore- 
stalled some  of  their  maturest  results  in  her  intercourse  with 
Maltravers.  Before  the  inoculation  took  effect,  she  caught 
knowledge  in  the  natural  way.  For  the  refinement  of  a  graceful 
mind  and  a  happy  manner  is  very  contagious.  And  Maltravers 
was  encouraged  by  her  quickness  in  music  to  attempt  such  in- 


«8  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

struction  in  other  studies  as  conversation  could  afford.  It  is  a 
better  school  than  parents  and  masters  think  for:  there  was  a 
time  when  all  information  was  given  orally;  and  probably  the 
Athenians  learned  more  from  hearing  Aristotle,  than  we  do  from 
reading  him.  It  was  a  delicious  revival  of  Academe — in  the 
walks,  or  beneath  the  rustic  porticoes  of  that  little  cottage — the 
romantic  philosopher  and  the  beautiful  disciple!  And  his  talk 
was  much  like  that  of  a  sage  of  the  early  world,  with  some  wist- 
ful and  earnest  savage  for  a  listener:  of  the  stars  and  their 
courses — of  beasts,  and  birds,  and  fishes,  and  plants,  and  flow-, 
ers — the  wide  family  of  Nature — of  the  beneficence  and  power 
of  God — of  the  mystic  and  spiritual  history  of  man. 

Charmed  by  her  attention  and  docility,  Maltravers  at  length 
diverged  from  lore  into  poetry;  he  would  repeat  to  her  the  sim- 
plest and  most  natural  passages  he  could  remember  in  his  favor- 
ite poets;  he  would  himself  compose  verses  elaborately  adapted 
to  her  understanding;  she  liked  the  last  the  best,  and  learned 
them  the  easiest.  Never  had  young  poet  a  more  gracious  inspi- 
ration, and  never  did  this  inharmonious  world  more  compla- 
cently resolve  itself  into  soft  dreams,  as  if  to  humor  the  novitiate 
of  the  victims  it  must  speedily  take  into  its  joyless  priesthood. 
And  Alice  had  now  quietly  and  insensibly  carved  out  her  own 
avocations — the  tenor  of  her  service.  The  plants  in  the  con- 
servatory had  passed  under  her  care,  and  no  one  else  was  privi- 
leged to  touch  Maltravers's  books,  or  arrange  the  sacred  litter  of 
a  student's  apartment.  When  he  came  down  in  the  morning, 
or  returned  from  his  walks,  everything  was  in  order,  yet,  by  a 
kind  of  magic,  just  as  he  wished  it;  the  flowers  he  loved  best 
bloomed,  fresh-gathered,  on  his  table;  the  very  position  of  the 
large  chair,  just  in  that  corner  by  the  fireplace,  whence,  on  en- 
tering the  room,  its  hospitable  arms  opened  with  the  most  cor- 
dial air  of  welcome,  bespoke  the  presiding  genius  of  a  woman; 
and  then,  precisely  as  the  clock  struck  eight,  Alice  entered,  so 
pretty  and  smiling,  and  happy-looking,  that  it  was  no  wonder 
the  single  hour  at  first  allotted  to  her  extended  into  three. 

Was  Alice  in  love  with  Maltravers? — she  certainly  did  not  ex- 
hibit the  symptoms  in  the  ordinary  way — she  did  not  grow  more 
reserved,  and  agitated,  and  timid — there  was  no  worm  in  the 
bud  of  her  damask  cheek:  nay,  though  from  the  first  she  had 
been  tolerably  bold,  she  was  more  free  and  confidential,  more  at 
her  ease  every  day;  in  fact,  she  never  for  a  moment  suspected 
that  she  ought  to  be  otherwise;  she  had  not  the  conventional 
and  sensitive  delicacy  of  girls  who,  whatever  their  rank  of  life, 
have  been  taught  that  there  is  a  mystery  and  a  peril  in  love;  she 


ERNEST    MAI.TRAVERS.  29 

had  a  vague  idea  about  girls  going  wrong,  but  she  did  not  know 
that  love  had  anything  to  do  with  it;  on  the  contrary,  according 
to  her  father,  it  had  connection  with  money,  not  love;  all  that  she 
felt  was  so  natural,  and  so  very  sinless.  Could  she  help  being 
so  delighted  to  listen  to  him,  and  so  grieved  to  depart?  What 
thus  she  felt  she  expressed,  no  less  simply  and  no  less  guilelessly; 
and  the  candor  some'times  completely  blinded  and  misled  him. 
No,  she  could  not  be  in  love,  or  she  could  not  so  frankly  own 
that  she  loved  him — it  was  a  sisterly  and  grateful  sentiment. 

"The  dear  girl — I  am  rejoiced  to  think  so,"  said  Maltravers 
to  himself;  "  I  knew  there  would  be  no  danger." 

Was  he  not  in  love  himself? — the  reader  must  decide, 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers,  one  evening,  after  a  long  pause  of 
thought  and  abstraction  on  his  side,  while  she  was  unconsciously 
practising  her  last  lesson  on  the  piano — "Alice, — no,  don't  turn 
round — sit  where  you  are,  but  listen  to  me.  We  cannot  always 
live  in  this  way." 

Alice  was  instantly  disobedient — she  did  turn  round,  and  those 
great  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  own  with  such  anxiety  and 
alarm,  that  he  had  no  resource  but  to  get  up  and  look  round  for 
his  meerschaum.  But  Alice,  who  divined  by  an  instinct  his 
slightest  wish,  brought  it  to  him,  while  he  was  yet  hunting,  amidst 
the  further  corners  of  the  room,  in  places  where  it  was  certain 
not  to  be.  There  it  was,  already  filled  with  the  fragrant  Salonica, 
glittering  with  the'gilt  paslile,  which,  not  too  healthfully,  adul- 
terates the  seductive  weed  with  odors  that  pacify  the  repugnant 
censure  of  the  fastidious — for  Maltravers  was  an  epicurean  even 
in  his  worst  habits; — there  it  was,  I  say,  in  that  pretty  hand 
which  he  had  to  touch  as  he  took  it;  and  while  he  lit  the  weed, 
he  had  again  to  blush  and  shrink  beneath  those  great  blue  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Alice,"  he  said;  "  thank  you.  Do  sit  down — • 
there — out  of  the  draught.  I  am  going  to  open  the  window,  the 
night  is  so  lovely." 

He  opened  the  casement,  overgrown  with  creepers,  and  the 
moonlight  lay  fair  and  breathless  upon  the  smooth  lawn.  The 
calm  and  holiness  of  the  night  soothed  and  elevated  his  thoughts; 
he  had  cut  himself  off  from  the  eyes  of  Alice,  and  he  proceeded 
with  a  firm,  though  gentle,  voice: — 

"My  dear  Alice,  we  cannot  always  live  together  in  this  way; 
you  are  now  wise  enough  to  understand  me,  so  listen  patiently. 
A  young  woman  never  wants  a  fortune  so  long  as  she  has  a  good 
character;  she  is  always  poor  and  despised  without  one.  Now, 
a  good  character  in  this  world  is  lost  as  much  by  imprudence  as 
guilt;  and  if  you  were  to  live  with  me  much  longer,  it  would  be 


30  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

imprudent,  and  your  character  would  suffer  so  much  that  you 
would  not  be  able  to  make  your  own  way  in  the  world;  far,  then, 
from  doing  you  a  service,  I  should  have  done  you  a  deadly  in- 
jury, which  1  could  not  atone  for:  besides,  Heaven  knows  what 
may  happen  worse  than  imprudence;  for,  I  am  very  sorry  to 
say,"  added  Maltravers,  with  great  gravity,  "  that  you  are  much 
too  pretty  and  engaging  to — to — in  short,  it  won't  do.  I  must 
go  home;  my  friends  will  have  a  right  to  complain  of  me  if  I 
remain  thus  lost  to  them  many  weeks  longer.  And  you,  my  dear 
Alice,  are  now  sufficiently  advanced  to  receive  better  instruction 
than  I  or  Mr.  Simcox  can  give  you.  I  therefore  propose  to  place 
you  in  some  respectable  family,  where  you  will  have  more  com- 
fort and  a  higher  station  than  you  have  here.  You  can  finish 
your  education,  and  instead  of  being  taught,  you  will  be  thus 
enabled  to  become  a  teacher  to  others.  With  your  beauty, 
Alice"  (and  Maltravers  sighed),  "and  natural  talents,  and  ami- 
able temper,  you  have  only  to  act  well  and  prudently  to  secure 
at  last  a  worthy  husband  and  a  happy  home.  Have  you  heard 
me,  Alice  ?     Such  is  the  plan  I  have  formed  for  you." 

The  young  man  thought  as  bespoke,  with  honest  kindness  and 
upright  honor;  it  was  a  bitterer  sacrifice  than  perhaps  the  reader 
thinks  for.  But  Maltravers,  if  he  had  an  impassioned,  had  not 
a  selfish  heart;  and  he  felt,  to  use  his  own  expression,  more  em- 
phatic than  eloquent,  that  "it  would  not  do,"  to  live  any  longer 
alone  with  this  beautiful  girl,  like  the  tv/o  children  whom  the  good 
Fairy  kept  safe  from  sin  and  the  world  in  the  Pavilion  of  Roses. 

But  Alice  comprehended  neither  the  danger  to  herself,  nor 
the  temptations  that  Maltravers,  if  he  could  not  resist,  desired 
to  shun.  She  rose,  pale  and  trembling — approached  Maltravers, 
aad  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"  I  will  go  away,  when  and  where  you  wish — the  sooner  the 
better — to-morrow — yes,  to-morrow;  you  are  ashamed  of  poor 
Alice;  and  it  has  been  very  silly  of  me  to  be  so  happy."  (She 
struggled  with  her  emotion  a  moment,  and  went  on.)  "You 
know  Heaven  can  hear  me,  even  when  I  am  away  from  you,  and 
when  I  know  morel  can  pray  better;  and  Heaven  will  bless  you, 
sir,  and  make  you  happy,  for  I  never  can  pray  for  anything  else." 

With  these  words  she  turned  away,  and  walked  proudly  towards 
the  door.  But  when  she  reached  the  threshold,  she  stopped  and 
looked  around,  as  if  to  take  a  last  farewell.  All  the  associations 
and  memories  of  that  beloved  spot  rushed  upon  her — she  gasped 
for  breath, — tottered, — and  fell  to  the  ground  insensible. 

Maltravers  was  already  by  her  side;  he  lifted  her  lightweight 
in  his  arms;  he  uttered  wild  and  impassioned  exclamations— 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  3I 

''Alice,  beloved  Alice — forgive  me;  we  will  never  part !"  He 
chafed  her  hand  in  his  own,  wliile  her  head  lay  on  his  bosom, 
and  he  kissed  again  and  again  those  beautiful  eyelids,  till  they 
opened  slowly  upon  him,  and  the  tender  arms  tightened  round 
him  involuntarily. 

I  "Alice,"he  whispered — "Alice,  dear  Alice,  I  love  thee."  Alas, 
it  was  true:  he  loved — and  forgot  all  but  that  love.  He  was 
eighteen. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay  !  " 

Alerchant  of  Venice. 

We  are  apt  to  connect  the  voice  of  Conscience  with  the  still- 
ness of  midnight.  But  I  think  we  wrong  that  innocent  hour.  It 
is  that  terrible  "next  morning,"  when  reason  is  wide  awake, 
upon  which  remorse  fastens  its  fangs.  Has  a  man  gambled  away 
his  all,  or  shot  his  friend  in  a  duel — has  he  committed  a  crime, 
or  incurred  a  laugh — it  is  the  next  morning,  when  the  irretrieva- 
ble Past  rises  before  him  like  a  spectre;  then  doth  the  church- 
yard of  memory  yield  up  its  grisly  dead — then  is  the  witching 
hour  when  the  foul  fiend  within  us  can  least  tempt  perhaps,  but 
most  torment.  At  night  we  have  one  thing  to  hope  for,  one 
refuge  to  fly  to — oblivion  and  sleep!  But  at  morning,  sleep  is 
over,  and  we  are  called  upon  coldly  to  review,  and  re-act,  and 
live  again  the  waking  bitterness  of  self-reproach.  Maltravers 
rose  a  penitent  and  unhappy  man — remorse  was  new  to  him, 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  committed  a  treacherous  and  fraudulent 
as  well  as  guilty  deed.  This  poor  girl,  she  was  so  innocent,  so 
confiding,  so  unprotected,  even  by  her  own  sense  of  right.  He 
went  down-stairs  listless  and  dispirited.  He  longed  yet  dreaded 
to  encounter  Alice.  He  heard  her  step  in  the  conservatory — 
paused,  irresolute,  and  at  length  joined  her.  For  the  first  time 
she  blushed  and  trembled,  and  her  eyes  shunned  his.  But  when 
he  kissed  her  hand  in  silence,  she  whispered,  "And  am  I  now  to 
leave  you?"  And  Maltravers  answered  fervently,  " Never  !  " 
and  then  her  face  grew  so  radiant  with  joy,  that  Maltravers  was 
comforted  despite  himself.  Alice  knew  no  remorse,  though  she 
felt  agitated  and  ashamed;  as  she  had  not  comprehended  the 
danger,  neither  was  she  aware  of  the  fall.  In  fact,  she  never 
thought  of  herself.  Her  whole  soul  was  with  him;  she  gave  him 
back  in  love  the  spirit  she  had  caught  from  him  in  knowledge. 

And  they  strolled  together  through  the  garden  all  that  day, 


32  ERNEST    MAI-TRAVERS. 

and  Maltravers  grew  reconciled  to  himself.  He  had  done  wrong, 
it  is  true;  but  then  perhaps  Alice  had  already  suffered  as  much 
as  she  could  in  the  world's  opinion,  by  living  with  him  alone, 
though  innocent,  so  long.  And  now  she  had  an  everlasting 
claim  to  Iws  protection — she  should  never  know  shame  or  want. 
And  the  love  that  had  led  to  the  wrong  should,  by  fidelity  and 
devotion,  take  from  it  the  character  of  sin. 

Natural  and  commonplace  sophistries!  L'homtne  se pique  !  as 
old  Montaigne  said;  Man  is  his  own  sharper!  The  conscience 
is  the  most  elastic  material  in  the  world.  To-day  you  cannot 
stretch  it  over  a  mole-hill,  to-morrow  it  hides  a  mountain. 

Oh,  how  happy  they  were  now — that  young  pair!  How  the  days 
flew  like  dreams!  Time  went  on,  winter  passed  away,  and  the 
early  spring,  with  its  flowers  and  sunshine,  was  like  a  mirror  to 
their  own  youth.  Alice  never  accompanied  Maltravers  in  his 
walks  abroad,  partly  because  she  feared  to  meet  her  father,  and 
partly  because  Maltravers  himself  was  fastidiously  averse  to  all 
publicity.  But  then  they  had  all  that  little  world  of  three 
acres — lawn  and  fountain,  shrubbery  and  terrace  to  themselves, 
and  Alice  never  asked  if  there  was  any  other  world  without. 
She  was  now  quite  a  scholar,  as  Mr.  Simcox  himself  averred. 
She  could  read  aloud  and  fluently  to  Maltravers,  and  copied  out 
his  poetry  in  a  small,  fluctuating  hand,  and  he  had  no  longer  to 
chase  throughout  his  vocabulary  for  short  Saxon  monosyllables 
to  make  the  bridge  of  intercourse  between  their  ideas.  Eros 
and  Psyche  are  ever  united,  and  Love  opens  all  the  petals  of  the 
soul.  On  one  subject  alone,  Maltravers  was  less  eloquent  than 
of  yore.  He  had  not  succeeded  as  a  moralist,  and  he  thought 
it  hypocritical  to  preach  what  he  did  not  practise.  But  Alice 
was  gentler  and  purer,  and  as  far  as  she  knew,  sweet  fool!  bet- 
ter than  ever — she  had  invented  a  new  prayer  for  herself;  and 
she  prayed  as  regularly  and  as  fervently  as  if  she  were  doing 
nothing  amiss.  But  the  code  of  heaven  is  gentler  than  that  of 
earth,  and  does  not  declare  that  ignorance  excuseth  not  the  crime. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their  prey. 
*  *  *  *  • 

No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament. 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious." 

Byron,  Heaven  and  Earth. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  April,  the  weather  was  unusually 
mild  and  serene  for  the  time  of  the  year,  in  the  northern  districts 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  ^$ 

of  our  isle,  and  the  bright  drops  of  a  recent  shower  sparkled  upon 
the  buds  of  the  lilac  and  laburnum  that  clustered  around  the  cot- 
tage of  Maltravers.  The  little  fountain  that  played  in  the  centre 
of  a  circular  basin,  on  whose  clear  surface  the  broad-leaved  water 
lily  cast  its  fairy  shadow,  added  to  the  fresh  green  of  the  lawn  ; — 

"  And  softe  as  velvet  the  yonge  grass," 
on  which  the  rare  and  early  flowers  were  closing  their  heavy  lids- 
That  twilight  shower  had  given  a  racy  and  vigorous  sweetness 
to  the  air  which  stole  over  many  a  bank  of  violets,  and  slightly 
stirred  the  golden  ringlets  of  Alice  as  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her 
entranced  and  silent  lover.  They  were  seated  on  a  rustic  bench 
just  without  the  cottage,  and  the  open  windows  behind  them  ad- 
mitted the  view  of  that  happy  room — with  its  litter  of  books  and 
musical  instruments — eloquent  of  the  Poetry  of  Home. 

Maltravers  was  silent,  for  his  flexile  and  excitable  fancy  was 
conjuring  up  a  thousand  shapes  along  the  transparent  air,  or 
upon  those  shadowy  violet  banks.  He  was  not  thinking,  he  was 
imagining.  His  genius  reposed  dreamily  upon  the  calm,  but 
exquisite  sense  of  his  happiness.  Alice  was  not  absolutely  in  his 
thoughts,  but  unconsciously  she  colored  them  all — if  she  had 
left  his  side,  the  whole  charm  would  have  been  broken.  But 
Alice,  who  was  not  a  poet  or  a  genius,  7£'a.y  thinking,  and  think- 
ing only  of  Maltravers.  .  .  .  His  image  was  "  the  broken  mir- 
ror" multiplied  in  a  thousand  faithful  fragments  over  everything 
fair  and  soft  in  that  lovely  microcosm  before  her.  But  they  were 
both  alike  in  one  thing — they  were  not  with  the  Future,  they 
were  sensible  of  the  Present — the  sense  of  the  actual  life,  the  en- 
joyment of  the  breathing  time  was  strong  within  them.  Such 
is  the  privilege  of  the  extremes  of  our  existence — Youth  and 
Age.  Middle  life  is  never  with  to-day,  its  home  is  in  to-mor. 
row  .  .  .  anxious,  and  scheming,  and  desiring,  and  wishing  this 
plot  ripened,  and  that  hope  fulfilled,  while  every  wave  of  the  for. 
gotten  Time  brings  it  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  end  of  all  things. 
Half  our  life  is  consumed  in  longing  to  be  nearer  death. 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers,  waking  at  last  from  his  reverie, and 
drawing  that  light,  childlike  form  nearer  to  him,  "you  enjoy 
this  hour  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  Oh,  much  more  !  " 

"  More  !  and  why  so?" 

"Because  I  am  thinking  of  you,  and  perhaps  you  are  not 
thinking  of  yourself." 

Maltravers  smiled,  and  stroked  those  beautiful  ringlets,  and 
kissed  that  smooth,  innocent  forehead,  and  Alice  nestled  in  hig 
breast. 


34  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"  How  young  you  look  by  this  light,  Alice  !  "  said  he,  ten- 
derly looking  down. 

"  Would  you  love  me  less  if  I  were  old  ! "  asked  Alice. 

"I  suppose  I  should  never  have  loved  you  in  the  same  way, 
if  you  had  been  old  when  I  first  saw  you." 

"  Yet  I  am  sure  I  should  have  felt  the  same  for  you  if  you 
had  been — oh  !  ever  so  old  !  " 

"  What,  with  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  palsied  head,  and  a  brown 
wig,  and  no  teeth,  like  Mr.  Simcox?" 

"  Oh,  but  you  could  never  be  like  that !  You  would  always 
look  young — your  heart  would  be  always  in  your  face.  That 
dear  smile — ah,  you  would  look  beautiful  to  the  last  ! " 

"  But  Simcox,  though  not  very  lovely  now,  has  been,  I  dare 
say,  handsomer  than  I  am,  Alice  ;  and  I  shall  be  contented  to 
look  as  well  when  I  am  as  old  ! " 

"  I  should  never  know  you  were  old,  because  I  can  see  you 
just  as  I  please.  Sometimes,  when  you  are  thoughtful,  your 
brows  meet,  and  you  look  so  stern  that  I  tremble  ;  but  then  I 
think  of  you  when  you  last  smiled,  and  look  up  again,  and  though 
you  are  frowning  still,  you  seem  to  smile.  I  am  sure  you  are 
different  to  other  eyes  than  to  mine  .  .  ,  and  time  must  kill  me 
before,  in  my  sight,  it  could  alter  j^»." 

"  Sweet  Alice,  you  talk  eloquently,  for  you  talk  love." 

"  My  heart  talks  to  you.  Ah  !  I  wish  it  could  say  all  it  felt. 
I  wish  it  could  make  poetry  like  you,  or  that  words  were  music — 
I  would  never  speak  to  you  in  anything  else.  I  was  so  delighted 
to  learn  music,  because  when  I  played  I  seemed  to  be  talking  to 
you.  I  am  sure  that  whoever  invented  music  did  it  because  he 
loved  dearly  and  wanted  to  say  so.  I  said  '//<?,'  but  I  think  it 
was  a  woman.     Was  it  ? " 

"  The  Greeks  I  told  you  of,  and  whose  life  was  music,  thought 
it  was  a  god." 

"Ah,  but  you  say  the  Greeks  made  Love  a  god.  Were  they 
wicked  for  it?" 

"Our  own  God  above  is  Love,"  said  Ernest,  seriously,  "as 
our  own  poets  have  said  and  sung.  But  it  is  a  love  of  another 
nature — divine,  not  human.  Come,  we  will  go  within,  the  air 
grows  cold  for  you." 

They  entered,  his  arm  round  her  waist.  The  room  smiled 
upon  them  its  quiet  welcome  ;  and  Alice,  whose  heart  had  not 
half  vented  its  fulness,  sat  down  to  the  instrument  still  to  "talk 
love  "  in  her  own  way. 

But  it  was  Saturday  evening.  Now  every  Saturday,  Maltravers 
received  from  the  neighboring  town  the  provincial  newspaper — 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  35 

this  was  his  only  medium  of  communication  with  the  great 
world.  But  it  was  not  for  that  communication  that  he  always 
seized  it  with  avidity,  and  fed  on  it  with  interest.  The  county 
in  which  his  father  resided  bordered  on  the  shire  on  which 
Ernest  sojourned,  and  the  paper  included  the  news  of  that  familiar 
district  in  its  comprehensive  columns.  It  therefore  satisfied 
Ernest's  conscience  and  soothed  his  filial  anxieties  to  read  from 
time  to  time,  that  "  Mr.  Maltravers  was  entertaining  a  distin- 
guished party  of  friends  at  his  noble  mansion  of  Lisle  Court"  ; 
or  that  "  Mr.  Maltravers'  foxhounds  had  met  on  such  a  day  at 
something  copse"  ;  or  that  "Mr.  Maltravers,  with  his  usual 
munificence,  had  subscribed  twenty  guineas  to  the  new  county 
gaol."  .  .  .  And  as  now  Maltravers  saw  the  expected  paper  laid 
beside  the  hissing  urn,  he  seized  it  eagerly,  tore  the  envelope,  and 
hastened  to  the  well-known  corner  appropriated  to  the  paternal 
district.     The  very  first  words  that  struck  his  eyes  were  these  : — 

"  ALARMING    ILLNESS    OF   MR.    MALTRAVERS. 

"  We  regret  to  state  that  this  exemplary  and  distinguished 
gentleman  was  suddenly   seized  on  Wednesday  night  with  a 

severe  spasmodic   affection.      Dr. was  immediately   sent 

for,  who  pronounced  it  to  be  gout  in  the  stomach — the  first  med- 
ical assistance  from  London  has  been  summoned. 

"  Postcript. — We  have  just  learned,  in  answer  to  our  inquiries 
at  Lisle  Court,  that  the  respected  owner  is  considerably  worse  ; 
but  slight  hopes  are  entertained  of  his  recovery.  Captain  Mal- 
travers, his  eldest  son  and  heir,  is  at  Lisle  Court.  An  express 
had  been  despatched  in  search  of  Mr.  Ernest  Maltravers,  who, 
involved  by  his  high  English  spirit  in  some  dispute  with  the 
authorities  of  a  despotic  government,  had  suddenly  disappeared 
from  Gottingen,  where  his  extraordinary  talents  had  highly  dis- 
tinguished him.     He  is  supposed  to  be  staying  at  Paris." 

The  paper  dropped  on  the  floor,  Ernest  threw  himself  back 
on  the  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Alice  was  beside  him  in  a  moment.  He  looked  up,  and  caught 
her  wistful  and  terrified  gaze.  "  Oh,  Alice  !  "  he  cried,  bitterly, 
and  almost  pushing  her  away,  "if  you  could  but  guess  my  re- 
morse !  "  Then  springing  on  his  feet,  he  hurried  from  the  room. 

Presently  the  whole  house  was  in  commotion.  The  gardener, 
who  was  always  in  the  house  about  supper-time,  flew  to  the  town 
for  post-horses.  The  old  woman  was  in  despair  about  the  laun- 
dress, for  her  first  and  only  thought  was  for  "master's  shirts." 
Ernest  locked  himself  in  his  room.     Alice  !  poor  Alice  ! 

In  little  more  than  twenty  minutes   the  chaise  was  at  the 


36  ERNEST    MALTRAYERS. 

door :  and  Ernest,  pale  as  death,  came  into  the  room  where  he 
had  left  Alice. 

She  was  seated  on  the  floor,  and  the  fatal  paper  was  on  her 
lap.  She  had  been  endeavoring,  in  vain,  to  learn  what  had  so 
sensibly  affected  Maltravers,  for,  as  I  said  before,  she  was  unac- 
quainted with  his  real  name,  and  therefore  the  ominous  para- 
graph did  not  even  arrest  her  eye. 

He  took  the  paper  from  her,  for  he  wanted  again  and  again 
to  read  it :  some  little  word  of  hope  or  encouragement  must 
have  escaped  him.  And  then  Alice  flung  herself  on  his  breast. 
"  Do  not  weep,"  said  he  ;  "  Heaven  knows  1  have  sorrow  enough 
of  my  own  !  My  father  is  dying  !  So  kind,  so  generous,  so  in- 
dulgent !  O  God,  forgive  me  !  Compose  yourself,  Alice.  You 
will  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or  two." 

He  kissed  her  ;  but  the  kiss  was  cold  and  forced.  He  hurried 
away.  She  heard  the  wheels  grate  on  the  pebbles.  She  rushed  to 
the  window  ;  but  that  beloved  face  was  not  visible.  Maltravers 
had  drawn  the  blinds,and  thrown  himself  back  to  indulge  his  grief, 
A  moment  more,  and  even  the  vehicle  that  bore  him  away  was 
gone.  And  before  her  were  the  flowers,  and  the  starlit  lawn,  and 
the  playful  fountain,  and  the  bench  where  they  had  sat  in  such 
heartfelt  and  serene  delight.  He  was  gone  ;  and  often, — oh,  how 
often,  did  Alice  remember  that  his  last  words  had  been  uttered 
in  estranged  tones — that  his  last  embrace  had  been  without 
love! 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears  :  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood, 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously  !  " 

Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  Act  iv.  Sc.  4. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  chaise  that  bore  Maltravers 
stopped  at  the  gates  of  a  park  lodge.  It  seemed  an  age  before 
the  peasant  within  was  aroused  from  the  deep  sleep  of  labor- 
loving  health.  "  My  father,"  he  cried,  while  the  gate  creaked 
on  its  hinges;  "my  father — is  he  better?     Is  he  alive?" 

"  Oh,  bless  your  heart,  Master  Ernest,  the  'squire  was  a  little 
better  this  evening." 

"  ThanK  heaven  ! — On — on  !  " 

The  horses  smoked  and  galloped  along  a  road  that  wound 
through  venerable  and  ancient  groves.     The  moonlight  slept 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  37 

soft  upon  the  sward,  and  the  cattle,  disturbed  from  their  sleep, 
rose  lazily  up,  and  gazed  upon  tlie  unseasonable  intruder. 

It  was  a  wild  and  weird  scene,  one  of  those  noble  English 
parks  at  midnight,  with  its  rough  forest-ground  broken  into  dell 
and  valley,  its  never-innovated  and  mossy  grass  overrun  with 
fern,  and  its  immemorial  trees,  that  have  looked  upon  the  birth, 
and  look  yet  upon  the  graves,  of  a  hundred  generations.  Such 
spots  are  tlie  last  proud  and  melancholy  trace  of  Norman  knight- 
hood and  old  romance,  left  to  the  laughing  landscapes  of  culti- 
vated England.  They  always  throw  something  of  shadow  and 
solemn  gloom  upon  minds  that  feel  their  associations,  like  that 
which  belongs  to  some  ancient  and  holy  edifice.  They  are  the 
cathedral  aisles  of  Nature,  with  their  darkened  vistas,  and 
columned  trunks,  and  arches  of  mighty  foliage.  But  in  ordinary 
times  the  gloom  is  pleasing,  and  more  delightful  than  all  the  cheer- 
ful lawns  and  sunny  slopes  of  the  modern  taste.  Now  to  Maltravers 
it  was  ominous  and  oppressive:  the  darkness  of  death  seem  brood- 
ing in  every  shadow,and  itswarningvoicemoaning  in  every  breeze. 

The  wheels  stopped  again.  Lights  flitted  across  the  basement 
story;  and  one  above,  more  dim  than  the  rest,  shone  palely  from 
the  room  in  which  the  sick  man  slept.  The  bell  rang  shrilly  out 
from  amidst  the  dark  ivy  that  clung  around  the  porch.  The  heavy 
door  swung  back — Maltravers  was  on  the  threshold.  His  father 
lived — was  better — was  awake.    The  son  was  in  his  father's  arms. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  The  guardian  oak 
Mourned  o'er  the  roof  it  shelter'd  :  the  thick  air 
Labor'd  with  doleful  sounds." 

Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

Many  days  had  passed,  and  Alice  was  still  alone;  but  she 
had  heard  twice  from  Maltravers.  The  letters  were  short  and 
hurried.  One  tiine  his  father  was  better,  and  there  were  hopes; 
another  time,  and  it  was  not  expected  that  he  could  survive  the 
week.  They  were  the  first  letters  Alice  had  ever  received  from 
him.  Those y?/'^/  letters  are  an  event  in  a  girl's  life — in  Alice's 
life  they  were  a  very  melancholy  one.  Ernest  did  not  ask  her 
to  write  to  him  ;  in  fact,  he  felt,  at  such  an  hour,  a  repugnance 
to  disclose  his  real  name,  and  receive  the  letters  of  clandestine 
love  in  the  house  in  which  a  father  lay  in  death.  He  might 
have  given  the  feigned  address  he  had  previously  assumed,  at 
some  distant  post-town,  where  his  person  was  not  known.    But, 


38  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

then,  to  obtain  such  letters,  he  must  quit  his  father's  side  fol 
hours.  The  thing  was  impossible.  These  difficulties  MaU 
travers  did  not  explain  to  Alice. 

She  thought  it  singular  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  from  her ; 
but  Alice  was  humble.  What  could  she  say  worth  troubling 
him  with,  and  at  such  an  hour?  But  how  kind  in  him  to  write  ! 
how  precious  those  letters  !  and  yet  they  disappointed  her,  and 
cost  her  floods  of  tears:  they  were  so  short — so  full  of  sorrow — 
there  was  so  little  love  in  them  ;  and  "dear,"  or  even  ''''dearest 
Alice,"  that  uttered  by  the  voice  was  so  tender,  looked  cold 
upon  the  lifeless  paper.  If  she  but  knew  the  exact  spot  where 
he  was,  it  would  be  some  comfort ;  but  she  only  knew  that  he 
was  away,  and  in  grief;  and  though  he  was  little  more  than 
thirty  miles  distant,  she  felt  as  though  immeasurable  space 
divided  them.  However,  she  consoled  herself  as  she  could;  and 
strove  to  shorten  the  long,  miserable  day  by  playing  all  over  the 
airs  he  liked,  and  reading  all  the  passages  he  had  commended. 
She  should  be  so  improved  when  he  returned  ;  and  how  lovely 
the  garden  would  look  ;  for  every  day  its  trees  and  bosquets 
caught  a  new  smile  from  the  deepening  spring.  Oh,  they  would 
be  so  happy  once  more  !  Alice  now  learned  the  life  th.-it  lies  in 
the  future  ;  and  her  young  heart  had  not,  as  yet,  been  taught 
that  of  that  future  there  is  any  prophet  but  Hope  ! 

Maltravers,  on  quitting  the  cottage,  had  forgotten  that  Alice 
was  without  money,  and  now  that  he  found  that  his  stay  would 
be  indefinitely  prolonged,  he  sent  a  remittance.  Several  bills 
were  unpaid — some  portion  of  the  rent  was  due  ;  and  Alice,  as 
she  was  desired,  intrusted  the  old  servant  with  a  bank  note, 
with  which  she  was  to  discharge  these  petty  debts.  One  even- 
ing, as  she  brought  Alice  the  surplus,  the  good  dame  seemed 
greatly  discomposed.  She  was  pale  and  agitated  ;  or,  as  she 
expressed  it,  "had  a  terrible  fit  of  the  shakes." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Jones?  you  have  no  news  of  him — 
of — of  my — of  your  master  ?" 

"  Deart  heart, miss — no,"  answered  Mrs.  Jones  ;  "how  should 
I  ?  But  I'm  sure  I  don't  wish  to  frighten  you  ;  there  has  been 
two  sitch  robberies  in  the  neighborhood  ! " 

"Oh,  thank  Heaven,  that's  all,"  exclaimed  Alice. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  for  to  thank  Heaven  for  that,  miss;  it's  a  shock- 
ing thing  for  two  lone  females  like  us,  and  them  ere  windows 
all  open  to  the  ground  !  You  sees,  as  I  was  taking  the  note  to 
be  changed  at  Mr.  Harris's,  the  great  grocer's  shop,  where  all 
the  poor  folk  was  a-buying  agin  to-morrow  "  (for  it  was  Satur- 
day night,  the  second  Saturday  after  Ernest's  departure  ;  from 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  39 

that  hegira  Alice  dated  all  her  chronology),  "and  everybody 
was  a-talking  about  the  robberies  last  night.  I.a,  miss,  they 
bound  old  Betty — you  know  Betty — a  most  respectable  'oman, 
who  has  known  sorrows,  and  drinks  tea  with  me  once  a  week. 
Well,  miss,  they  (only  think  !)  bound  Betty  to  the  bedpost,  with 
nothing  on  her  but  her  shift — poor  old  soul !  And  as  Mr.  Harris 
gave  me  the  change  (please  to  see,  miss,  it's  all  right),  and  I 
asked  for  half  gould,  miss,  it's  more  convenient,  sitch  an  ill- 
looking  fellow  was  by  me,  a-buying  o'  baccy,  and  he  did  so 
stare  at  the  money,  that  I  vows  I  thought  he'd  have  rin  away 
with  it  from  the  counter ;  so  I  grabbed  it  up  and  went  away. 
But,  would  you  believe,  miss,  just  as  I  got  into  the  lane,  afore 
you  turns  through  the  gate,  I  chanced  to  look  back,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  that  ugly  fellow  close  behind,  a-running  like 
mad.  O,  1  set  up  such  a  skreetch  ;  and  young  Dobbins  was 
a-taking  his  cow  out  of  the  field,  and  he  perked  up  over  the 
hedge  when  he  heard  me ;  and  the  cow,  too,  with  her  horns. 
Lord  bless  her  !  So  the  fellow  stopped,  and  I  bustled  through 
the  gate,  and  got  home.  But  la,  miss,  if  we  are  all  robbed  and 
murdered  ?" 

Alice  had  not  heard  much  of  this  harangue ;  but  what  she 
did  hear,  very  slightly  affected  her  strong,  peasant-born  nerves; 
not  half  so  much,  indeed,  as  the  noise  Mrs.  Jones  made  in 
double-locking  all  the  doors,  and  barring,  as  well  as  a  peg  and 
a  rusty  inch  of  chain  would  allow,  all  the  windows — which 
operation  occupied  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half. 

All  at  last  was  still.  Mrs.  Jones  had  gone  to  bed — in  the 
arms  of  sleep  she  had  forgotten  her  terrors — and  Alice  had 
crept  upstairs,  and  undressed,  and  said  her  prayers,  and  wept  a 
little  ;  and  with  the  tears  yet  moist  upon  her  dark  eye-lashes, 
had  glided  into  dreams  of  Ernest.  Midnight  was  passed — the 
stroke  of  one  sounded  unheard  from  the  clock  at  the  foot  of  the 
slairs.  The  moon  was  gone — a  slow,  drizzling  rain  was  falling 
upon  the  flowers,  and  cloud  and  darkness  gathered  fast  and 
thick  around  the  sky. 

About  this  time,  a  low,  regular,  grating  sound  commenced  at 
the  thin  shutters  of  the  sitting-room  below,  preceded  by  a  very 
faint  noise,  like  the  tinkling  of  small  fragments  of  glass  on  the 
gravel  without.  At  length  it  ceased,  and  the  cautious  and 
partial  gleam  of  a  Ian  thorn  fell  along  the  floor;  another  moment 
and  two  men  stood  in  the  room. 

"  Hush,  Jack  !  "  whispered  one  ;  "  hang  out  the  glim,  and  let's 
look  about  us." 

The  dark-lanthorn,  now  fairly  unmuffled,  presented  to  the 


4©  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ga^e  of  the  robbers  nothing  lliat  could  gratify  their  cupidity. 
Books  and  music,  chairs,  tables,  carpet,  and  fire-irons,  though 
vakiable  enough  in  a  house-agent's  inventory,  are  worthless  to 
the  eyes  of  a  housebreaker.     They  muttered  a  mutual  curse. 

"Jack,"  said  the  former  speaker,  "we  must  make  a  dash  at 
the  spoons  and  forks,  and  then  hey  for  the  money.  The  old 
girl  iiad  thirty  shiners,  besides  flimsies." 

The  accomplice  nodded  assent;  the  lanthorn  was  again  par- 
tially shaded,  and  with  noiseless  and  stealthy  steps  the  men 
quitted  the  apartment.  Several  minutes  elapsed,  when  Alice 
was  awakened  from  her  slumber  by  a  loud  scream;  she  started, 
all  was  again  silent ;  she  must  have  dreamt  it ;  her  little  heart 
beat  violently  at  first,  but  gradually  regained  its  tenor.  She 
rose,  however,  and  the  kindness  of  her  nature  being  more  sus- 
ceptible than  her  fear — she  imagined  Mrs.  Jones  might  be  ill — 
she  would  go  to  her.  With  this  idea  she  began  partially  dress- 
ing herself,  wlien  she  distinctly  heard  heavy  footsteps  and  a 
strange  voice  in  the  room  beyond.  She  was  now  thoroughly 
alarmed — her  first  impulse  was  to  escape  from  the  house — her 
next  to  bolt  the  door,  and  call  aloud  for  assistance.  But  who 
would  hear  her  cries  ?  Between  the  two  purposes,  she  halted  ir- 
resolute .  .  .  and  remained,  pale  and  trembling,  seated  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  when  a  broad  light  streamed  through  the  chinks 
of  the  door — an  instant  more,  and  a  rude  hand  seized  her. 

"Come,  mem,  don't  be  fritted,  we  won't  harm  you;  but 
Where's  the  gold-dust — where's  the  money?  the  old  girl  says 
you've  got  it.     Fork  it  over." 

"Oh  mercy,  mercy  !     John  Walters,  is  that  you  ?" 

"Damnation  !  "  muttered  the  man,  staggering  back,  "so  you 
knows  me,  then ;  but  you  shan't  peach  ;  you  shan't  scrag  me, 
b — t  you." 

While  he  spoke,  he  again  seized  Alice,  held  her  forcibly  down 
with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  deliberately  drev/froma 
side  pouch  a  long  case-knife.  In  that  moment  of  deadly  peril, 
the  second  rufhan,  who  had  hitherto  delayed  in  securing  the 
servant,  rushed  forward.  He  had  heard  the  exclamation  of  Alice, 
he  heard  the  threat  of  his  comrade  ;  he  darted  to  the  bedside, 
cast  a  hurried  gaze  upon  Alice,  and  hurled  the  intended  murderer 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"What,  man,  art  mad?"  he  growled,  between  his  teeth. 
"Don't  you  know  her?     It  is  Alice ; — it  is  my  daughter." 

Alice  had  sprung  up  when  released  from  the  murderer's  knife, 
and  now  with  eyes  strained  and  starting  with  horror,  gazed 
upon  the  dark  and  evil  face  of  her  deliverer. 


ERNKbr    MALTKAVKRS.  4I 

"  O  God,  it  is — it  is  my  father !  "  she  muttered,  and  fell  senseless. 

"Daughter,  or  no  daughter,"  said  John  Walters,  "1  shall  not 
put  my  scrag  in  her  power ;  recollect  how  she  fritted  us  before, 
when  she  run  away." 

Darvil  stood  thoughtful  and  perplexed — and  his  associate 
approached  doggedly,  with  a  look  of  such  settled  ferocity  as  it  was 
imi>ossible  for  even  Darvil  to  contemplate  without  a  shudder. 

"You  say  right,"  muttered  the  father,  after  a  pause,  but  fixing 
his  strong  gripe  on  his  comrade's  shoulder,  "the  girl  must  not  be 
left  here — the  cart  has  a  covering.  We  are  leaving  the  country  ; 
I  have  a  right  to  my  daughter — she  shall  go  with  us.  There,  man, 
grab  the  money — it's  on  the  table ;  .  .  .  you've  got  the  spoons. 
Now,  then — "  as  Darvil  spoke  he  seized  his  daughter  in  his 
arms  ;  threw  over  her  a  shawl  and  a  cloak  that  lay  at  hand,  and 
was  already  on  the  threshold. 

"Idon'thalf-like  it,"  said  Walters,  grumblingly — itbeen'tsafe." 

"At  least  it  is  as  safe  as  murder  !"  answered  Darvil,  turning 
round  with  a  ghastly  grin.     "Make  haste." 

When  Alice  recovered  her  senses,  the  dawn  was  breaking  slowly 
along  desolate  and  sullen  hills.  She  was  lying  upon  rough  straw — 
thecartwas  jolting  over  the  ruts  of  a  precipitous,  lonely  road, — 
and  by  her  4ide  scowled  the  face  of  that  dreadful  father. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Yet  he  beholds  her  with  the  eyes  of  mind — - 
He  sees  the  form  which  he  no  more  shall  meet — 
She  like  a  passionate  thought  is  come  and  gone, 
While  at  his  feet  the  bright  rill  bubbles  on." 

Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

It  was  a  little  more  than  three  weeks  after  that  fearful  night, — 
when  the  chaise  of  Maltravers  stopped  at  the  cottage  door — the 
windows  were  shut  up  ;  no  one  answered  tlie  repeated  summons 
of  the  post-boy.  Maltravers  himself,  alarmed  and  dismayed, 
descended  from  the  vehicle  ;  he  was  in  deep  mourning.  He  went 
impatiently  to  the  back  entrance  ;  that  was  also  locked  ;  round 
to  the  French  windows  of  the  drawing-room,  always  hitherto 
half-opened,  even  in  the  frosty  days  of  winter, — they  were  now 
closed,  like  the  rest.  He  shouted  in  terror,  "Alice,  Alice!" — 
no  sweet  voice  answered  in  breathless  joy,  no  fairy  step  bounded 
forward  in  welcome.  At  this  moment,  however,  appeared  the 
form  of  the  gardener,  coming  across  the  lawn.  The  tale  was  soon 
\())\ ;  the  house  had  beeri  fobbed — the  old  woman  found  gagged 


42  ERKEST    MALTRAVERS. 

and  fastened  to  her  bed-post — Alice  flown.  A  magistrate  had 
been  applied  to — suspicion  fell  upon  the  fugitive.  None  knew 
anything  of  her  origin  or  name,  not  even  the  old  woman.  Mal- 
travers  had  naturally  and  sedulously  ordained  Alice  to  preserve 
lliat  secret,  and  she  was  too  much  in  fear  of  being  detected  and 
claimed  by  her  father,  not  to  obey  the  injunction  witli  scrupulous 
caution.  But  it  was  known,  at  least,  that  she  had  entered  the 
house  a  poor  peasant  girl ;  and  what  more  connnon  than  for  ladies 
of  a  certain  description  to  run  away  from  their  lover,  and  take 
some  of  his  property  by  mistake?  And  a  poor  girl  like  Alice, 
wliat  else  could  be  expected  ?  The  magistrate  smiled,  and  the 
constables  laughed.  After  all,  it  was  a  good  joke  at  the  young 
gentleman's  expense  !  Perhaps,  as  they  had  no  orders  from  Mal- 
travers,  and  they  did  not  knov/  where  to  find  him,  and  thought 
he  would  be  little  inclined  to  prosecute,  the  search  was  not  very 
rigorous.  But  two  houses  had  been  robbed  the  night  before. 
Their  owners  weren^ore  on  the  alert.  Suspicion  fell  upon  a  man 
of  infamous  character,  John  Walters  ;  he  had  disappeared  from 
the  place.  He  had  been  last  seen  with  an  idle,  drunken  fellow, 
who  was  said  to  have  known  better  days,  and  who  at  one  time 
had  been  a  skilful  and  well-paid  mechanic,  till  his  habits  of  theft 
and  drunkenness  threw  him  out  of  employ  ;  and  he  had  been 
since  accused  of  connection  with  a  gang  of  coiners — tried — and 
escaped  from  want  of  sufficient  evidence  against  him.  That  man 
was  Luke  Darvil.  His  cottage  was  searched  ;  but  he  also  had 
fled.  The  trace  of  cart-wheels  by  the  gate  of  Maltravers  gave  a 
faint  clue  to  pursuit  ;  and  after  an  active  search  of  some  days, 
persons  answering  to  the  description  of  the  suspected  burglars — 
with  a  young  female  in  their  company — were  tracked  to  a  small 
inn,  notorious  as  a  resort  for  smugglers,  by  the  sea-coast.  But 
there  every  vestige  of  their  sui)posed  whereabouts  disappeared. 

And  all  this  was  told  to  the  stunned  Maltravers  ;  the  garrulity 
off  the  gardener  precluded  the  necessity  of  his  own  inquiries,  and 
the  name  of  Darvil  explained  to  him  all  that  was  dark  to  others. 
And  Alice  was  suspected  of  the  basest  and  the  blackest  guilt! 
Obscure,  beloved,  protected  as  she  had  been,  she  could  not  es- 
cape the  calumny  from  which  he  had  hoped  everlastingly  to  shield 
her.  But  did  he  share  that  hateful  thought  ?  Maltravers  was 
too  generous  and  too  enlightened. 

*'  Dog  !  "  said  he,  grinding  his  teeth,  and  clenching  his  hands, 
at  the  startled  menial,  "  dare  to  utter  a  syllable  of  suspicion 
against  her,  and  1  will  trample  the  breath  out  of  your  body  !  " 

The  old  woman  who  had  vowed  that  for  the  'varsal  world  she 
would  not  stay  in-  th?  hpusQ  afi?r  such  d,  "  night  of  shakes," 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  43 

had  now  learned  the  news  of  her  master's  return,  and  came  hob- 
bling up  to  liim.  She  arrived  in  time  to  hear  his  menace  to  her 
fellow-servant. 

"Ah,  that's  right;  give  it  to  him,  your  honor,  bless  your  good 
heart — that's  what  I  says.  Miss  rob  the  house  !  says  I — Miss 
run  away.  Oh  no — depend  on  it  they  have  murdered  her,  and 
buried  the  body." 

Mallravers  gasped  for  breath,  but  without  uttering  another 
word  he  re-entered  the  chaise  and  drove  to  the  house  of  the 
magistrate  He  found  that  functionary  a  worthy  and  intelligent 
man  of  the  world.  To  him  he  confided  the  secret  of  Alice's 
birth  and  his  own.  The  magistrate  concurred  with  him  in  be- 
lieving that  Alice  had  been  discovered  and  removed  by  her  father. 
New  search  was  made — gold  was  lavished.  Maltravers  himself 
headed  the  search  in  person.  But  all  came  to  the  same  result 
as  before,  save  by  that  descriptions  he  heard  of  the  person — the 
dress — the  tears,  of  the  young  female  who  had  accompanied  the 
men  supposed  to  be  Darvil  and  Walters,  he  was  satisfied  that 
Alice  yet  lived  ;  he  hoped  she  might  yet  escape  and  return.  In 
that  hope  he  lingered  for  weeks — for  months,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  but  time  passed  and  no  tidings.  .  .  .  He  was  forced  at 
length  to  quit  a  neighborhood  at  once  so  saddened  and  en- 
deared. But  he  secured  a  friend  in  the  magistrate,  who  prom- 
ised to  communicate  with  him  if  Alice  returned,  or  her  father 
was  discovered.  He  enriched  Mrs.  Jones  for  life,  in  gratitude 
for  her  vindication  of  his  lost  and  early  love  ;  he  promised  the 
amplest  rewards  for  the  smallest  clue.  And  with  a  crushed  and 
desponding  spirit,  he  obeyed  at  last  the  repeated  and  anxious 
summons  of  the  guardian  to  whose  care,  until  his  majority  was 
attained,  the  young  orphan  was  now  intrusted. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  that  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus." — Denham. 

' '  Walk  sober  off,  before  a  sprightlier  age 

Come  tittering  on,  and  shove  you  from  the  stage." — Pope. 

"  Hence  to  repose  your  trust  in  me  was  wise." 

Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achitophel. 

Mr.  Frederick  Cleveland,  a  younger  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Byrneham,  and  therefore  entitled  to  the  style  and  distinction  of 
"Honorable,"  was  the  guardian  of  Ernest  Maltravers.     He  was 


44  ERNLbT    MA  LIRA  VERS. 

now  about  the  age  of  forty-three ;  a  man  of  letters  and  a  man 
of  fashion,  if  the  last  half-obsolete  expression  be  permitted  to 
us,  as  being  at  least  more  classical  and  definite  than  any  other 
which  modern  euphuism  has  invented  to  convey  the  same  mean- 
ing. Highly  educated,  and  with  natural  abilities  considerably 
above  mediocrity,  Mr.  Cleveland  early  in  life  had  glowed  with 
the  ambition  of  an  author.  .  .  .  He  had  written  well  and  grace- 
fully— but  his  success,  though  respectable,  did  not  satisfy  his 
aspirations.  The  fact  is,  that  a  new  school  of  literature  ruled 
the  public,  despite  the  critics — a  school  very  different  from  that 
in  which  Mr.  Cleveland  had  formed  his  unimpassioned  and  pol- 
ished periods.  And  as  that  old  Earl,  who  in  the  time  of  Charles 
the  First  was  the  reigning  wit  of  the  court,  in  the  time  of  Charles 
the  Second  was  considered  too  dull  even  for  a  butt,  so  every  age 
has  its  own  literary  stamp  and  coinage,  and  consigns  the  old 
circulation  to  its  shelves  and  cabinets,  as  neglected  curiosities. 
Cleveland  could  not  become  the  fashion  with  the  public  as  an 
author,  though  the  coteries  cried  him  up  and  the  reviewers 
adored  him^and  the  ladies  of  quality  and  the  amateur  dilet- 
tanti bought  and  bound  his  volumes  of  careful  poetry  and  ca- 
denced  prose.  But  Cleveland  had  high  birth  and  a  handsome 
competence — his  manners  were  delightful,  his  conversation 
fluent — and  his  disposition  was  as  amiable  as  his  mind  was  cul- 
tured. He  became,  therefore,  a  man  greatly  sought  after  in  so- 
ciety— both  respected  and  beloved.  If  he  had  not  genius,  he 
had  great  good  sense;  he  did  not  vex  his  urbane  temper  and 
kindly  heart  with  walking  after  a  vain  shadow,  and  disquieting 
himself  in  vain.  Satisfied  with  an  honorable  and  unenvied  repu- 
tation, he  gave  up  the  dream  of  that  higher  fame  which  he  clear- 
ly saw  denied  to  his  aspirations — and  maintained  his  good-humor 
with  the  world,  though  in  his  secret  soul  he  thought  it  was  very 
wrong  in  its  literary  caprices.  Cleveland  never  married  ;  he 
lived  partly  in  town,  but  principally  at  Temple  Grove,  a  villa 
not  far  from  Richmond.  Here,  with  an  excellent  library,  beauti- 
ful grounds,  and  a  circle  of  attached  and  admiring  friends,  which 
comprised  all  the  more  refined  and  intellectual  members  of  what 
is  termed,  with  emphasis,  Good  Society — this  accomplished  and 
elegant  person  passed  a  life,  perhaps  much  happier  than  he  would 
have  known  had  his  young  visions  been  fulfilled,  and  it  had  be- 
come his  stormy  fate  to  lead  the  rebellious  and  fierce  Democ- 
racy of  Letters. 

Cleveland  was  indeed,  if  not  a  man  of  high  and  original  genius, 
at  least,  very  superior  to  the  generality  of  patrician  authors.  In 
retiring,  himself,  from  frequent  exercise  in  the  arena,  he  gave 


ERNEST   MALtRAVEkS.  45 

tip  his  mind  with  renewed  zest  to  the  thoughts  and  masterpieces 
of  others.  From  a  well-read  man,  he  became  a  deeply  instructed 
one.  Metaphysics,  and  some  of  the  material  sciences,  added 
new  treasures  to  information  more  light  and  miscellaneous,  and 
contributed  to  impart  weight  and  dignity  to  a  mind  that  might 
otherwise  have  become  somewhat  effeminate  and  frivolous.  His 
social  habits,  his  clear  sense,  and  benevolenceof  judgment,  made 
him  also  an  exquisite  judge  of  all  those  indefinable  nothings  or 
little  things,  that,  formed  into  a  total,  become  knowledge  of  the 
Great  World.  I  say  the  Great  World — for  of  the  world  with- 
out the  circle  of  the  great,  Cleveland  naturally  knew  but  little. 
But  of  all  that  related  to  that  subtle  orbit  in  which  gentlemen 
and  ladies  move  in  elevated  and  ethereal  order,  Cleveland  was 
a  profound  philosopher.  It  was  the  mode  with  many  of  his  ad- 
mirers to  style  him  the  Horace  Walpole  of  the  day.  But  though 
in  some  of  the  more  external  and  superficial  points  of  character 
they  were  alike,  Cleveland  had  considerable  less  cleverness,- and 
infinitely  more  heart. 

The  late  Mr.  Maltravers,  a  man  not  indeed  of  literary  habits, 
but  an  admirer  of  those  who  were — an  elegant,  high-bred,  hos- 
pitable seigneur  de  prmnnce — had  been  one  of  the  earliest  of 
Cleveland's  friends — Cleveland  had  been  his  fag  at  Eton — and  he 
found  Hal  Maltravers — (Handsome  Hal !)  had  become  the  darl- 
ing of  the  clubs,  when  he  made  his  own  d^but  in  society.  They 
were  inseparable  for  a  season  or  two — and  when  Mr.  Maltravers 
married,  and  enamored  of  country  pursuits,  proud  of  his  old  hall, 
and  sensibly  enough  conceiving  that  he  was  a  greater  man  in 
his  own  broad  lands  than  in  the  republican  aristocracy  of  Lon- 
don, settled  peaceably  at  Lisle  Court,  Cleveland  corresponded 
with  him  regularly,  and  visited  him  twice  a  year.  Mrs.  Mal- 
travers died  in  giving  birth  to  Ernest,  her  second  son.  Her  hus- 
band loved  her  tenderly,  and  was  long  inconsolable  for  her  loss. 
He  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the  child  that  had  cost  him  so 
dear  a  sacrifice.  Cleveland  and  his  sister,  Lady  Julia  Danvers, 
were  residing  with  him  at  the  time  of  this  melancholy  event ; 
and  with  judicious  and  delicate  kindness.  Lady  Julia  proposed 
to  place  the  unconscious  offender  amongst  her  own  children  for 
some  months.  The  proposition  was  accepted,  and  it  was  two 
years  before  the  infant  Ernest  was  restored  to  the  paternal  man- 
sion. During  the  greater  part  of  that  time,  he  had  gone  through 
all  the  events  and  revolutions  of  baby  life,  under  the  bachelor 
roof  of  Frederick  Cleveland.  The  result  of  this  was,that  the  latter 
loved  the  child  like  a  father.  Ernest's  first  intelligible  word 
hailed  Cleveland  as  "papa";  and  when  the  urchin  was  at  length 


46  ERNEST    MALTRAVF.RS. 

deposited  at  Lisle  Court,  Cleveland  talked  all  the  nurses  out  of 
breath  with  admonitions,  and  cautions,  and  injunctions,  and 
promises  and  threats,  which  might  have  put  many  a  careful 
mother  to  the  blush.  This  circumstance  formed  a  new  tie  be- 
tween Cleveland  and  his  friend.  Cleveland's  visits  were  now 
three  times  a  year,  instead  of  twice.  Nothing  was  done  for  Er- 
nest without  Cleveland's  advice.  He  was  not  even  breeched  till 
Cleveland  gave  his  grave  consent.  Cleveland  chose  his  school 
and  took  him  to  it, — and  he  spent  a  week  of  every  vacation  in 
Cleveland's  house.  The  boy  never  got  into  a  scrape,  or  won  a 
prize,  or  wanted  a  ///,  or  coveted  a  book,  but  what  Cleveland 
was  the  first  to  know  of  it.  Fortunately,  too,  Ernest  manifested 
by  times  tastes  which  the  graceful  author  thought  similar  to  his 
own.  He  early  developed  very  remarkable  taU-nts,  and  a  love 
for  learning — though  these  were  accompanied  with  a  vigor  of  life 
and  soul — an  energy — a  daring — which  gave  Cleveland  some  un- 
easiness, and  which  did  not  appear  to  him  at  all  congenial  with 
the  moody  shyness  of  an  embryo  genius,  or  the  regular  placidity 
of  a  precocious  scholar.  Meanwhile  the  relation  between  father 
and  son  was  rather  a  singular  one.  Mr.  Maltravers  had  over- 
come his  first,  not  unnatural,  repugnance  to  the  innocent  cause 
of  his  irremedial  loss.  He  was  now  fond  and  proud  of  his  boy — 
as  he  was  of  all  things  that  belonged  to  him.  He  spoiled  and 
petted  him  even  more  than  Cleveland  did.  But  he  interfered 
very  little  with  his  education  or  pursuits.  His  eldest  son,  Cuth- 
bert,  did  not  engross  all  his  heart,  but  occupied  all  his  care. 
With  Cuthbert  he  connected  the  heritage  of  his  ancient  name, 
and  the  succession  of  his  ancestral  estates.  Cuthbert  was  not 
a  genius,  nor  intended  to  be  one  ;  he  was  to  be  an  accomplished 
gentleman,  and  a  great  proprietor.  The  father  understood  Cuth- 
bert, and  could  see  clearly  both  his  character  and  career.  He 
had  no  scruples  in  managing  his  education,  and  forming  his 
growing  mind.  But  Ernest  puzzled  him.  Mr.  Maltravers  was 
even  a  little  embarrassed  in  the  boy's  society  ;  liie  never  quite 
overcame  that  feeling  of  strangeness  toward  him  which  he  had 
experienced  when  he  first  received  him  back  from  Cleveland, 
and  took  Cleveland's  directions  about  his  health  and  so  forth. 
It  always  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  friend  shared  his  right  to  the 
child  ;  and  he  thought  it  a  sort  of  presumption  to  scold  Ernest, 
though  he  very  often  swore  at  Cuthbert.  As  the  younger  son 
grew  up,  it  certainly  was  evident  that  Cleveland  did  understand 
him  better  than  his  own  father  did  ;  and  so,  as  I  have  before 
said,  on  Cleveland  the  father  was  not  displeased  passively  to 
phift  the  responsibility  of  the  rearing. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  47 

Perhaps  Mr.  Maliravers  might  not  have  been  so  Indifferent, 
had  Ernest's  prospects  been  those  of  a  younger  son  in  general. 
If  a  profession  had  been  necessary  for  him,  Mr.  Maltravers 
would  have  been  naturally  anxious  to  see  him  duly  fitted  for  it. 
But  from  a  maternal  relation,  Ernest  inherited  an  estate  of 
al)out  four  thousand  pounds  a  year;  and  he  was  thus  made  in- 
dependent of  his  father.  This  loosened  another  tie  between 
thcni;  and  so  by  degrees  Mr.  Maltravers  learned  to  consider 
Ernest  less  as  his  own  son,  to  be  advised  or  rebuked,  praised  or 
controlled,  than  as  a  very  affectionate,  promising,  engaging  boy, 
who,  somehow  or  other,  without  any  trouble  on  his  part,  was 
very  likely  to  do  great  credit  to  his  family,  and  indulge  his  ec- 
centricities upon  four  thousand  pounds  a  year.  The  first  time 
that  Mr.  Maltravers  was  seriously  perplexed  about  him  was  when 
the  boy,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  having  taught  himself  German, 
and  intoxicated  his  wild  fancies  with  "  VVerter  "  and  the  "Rob- 
bers," announced  his  desire,  which  sounded  very  like  a  demand, 
of  going  to  Gottingen,  instead  of  to  Oxford.  Never  was  Mr. 
Maltravers's  notions  of  a  proper  and  gentlemanlike  finish  to 
education  more  completely  and  rudely  assaulted.  He  stammered 
out  a  negative,  and  hurried  to  his  study  to  write  a  long  letter  to 
Cleveland,  who,  himself  an  Oxford  prize-man,  would,  he  Avas 
persuaded,  see  the  matter  in  the  same  light.  Cleveland  answered 
the  letter  in  person  :  listened  in  silence  to  all  the  father  had  to 
say,  and  then  strolled  through  the  park  with  the  young  man. 
The  result  of  the  latter  conference  was,  that  Cleveland  declared 
in  favor  of  Ernest. 

"  But,  my  dear  Frederick,"  said  the  astonished  father,  "  I 
thought  the  boy  was  to  carry  off  all  the  prizes  at  Oxford  ?  " 

"  1  carried  off  some,  Maltravers;  but  I  don't  see  what  good 
thev  did  me." 

"'Oh,  Cleveland  !  " 

"  I  am  serious." 

"  But  it  is  such  a  very  odd  fancy." 

"  Your  son  is  a  very  odd  young  man." 

"  I  fear  he  is  so — I  fear  he  is,  poor  fellow  !  But  what  will  he 
learn  at  Gottingen  ?  " 

"  Languages  and  Independence,"  said  Cleveland. 

"  And  the  classics — the  classics — you  are  such  an  excellent 
Grecian  !  " 

"  There  are  great  Grecians  in  Germany,"  answered  Cleveland. 
"  And  Ernest  cannot  well  unlearn  what  he  knows  already.  M"" 
dear  Maltravers,  the  boy  is  not  like  most  clever  young  men.  He 
must   either  go  through  action,  and  adventure,  and  excitement 


48  ERNESt   MALtRAVCUS. 

in  his  own  way,  or  he  will  be  an  idle  dreamer  or  an  impracti- 
cable enthusiast  all  his  life.  Let  him  alone. — So  Cuthbert  is 
gone  into  the  Guards  ?  " 

"  But  he  went  first  to  Oxford." 

"  Humph  !     What  a  fine  young  man  he  is  !  " 

"Not  so  tall  as  Earnest,  but — " 

"A  handsomer  face,"  said  Cleveland.  "He  is  a  son  to  be 
proud  of  in  one  way,  as  I  hope  Ernest  will  be  in  another. 
Will  you  show  me  your  new  hunter  ?  " 

It  was  to  the  house  of  this  gentleman,  so  judiciously  made 
his  guardian,  that  the  student  of  Gottingen  now  took  his  mel- 
ancholy way. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

"  But  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose, 

Some  zest  for  ease,  'tis  not  forbidden  liere  ; 
Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  the  Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms  and  deck  the  vernal  year." 

Castle  of  Independence. 

The  house  of  Mr.  Cleveland  was  an  Italian  villa  adapted  to 
an  English  climate.  Through  an  Ionic  arch  you  entered  a  do- 
main of  some  hundred  or  eighty  acres  in  extent,  but  so  well 
planted  and  so  artfully  disposed,  that  you  could  not  have  sup- 
posed the  unseen  boundaries  enclosed  no  ampler  a  space.  The 
road  wound  through  the  greenest  sward,  in  which  trees  of  ven- 
erable growth  were  relieved  by  a  profusion  of  shrubs,  and  flowers 
gathered  into  baskets  intertwined  with  creepers,  or  blooming 
from  classic  vases,  placed  with  a  tasteful  care  in  such  spots  as 
required  the  filling  up,  and  harmonized  well  with  the  object 
chosen.  Not  an  old  ivy-grown  pollard,  not  a  modest  and  bending 
willow,  but  was  brought  out,  as  it  were,  into  a  peculiar  feature  by 
the  art  of  the  owner.  Without  being  overloaded,  or  too  minutely 
elaborate  (the  common  fault  of  the  rich  man's  villa),  the  whole 
place  seemed  one  diversified  and  cultivated  garden  ;  even  the 
air  almost  took  a  different  odor  from  different  vegetation,  with 
each  winding  of  the  road  ;  and  the  colors  of  the  flowers  and 
foliage  varied  with  every  view. 

At  length,  when,  on  a  lawn  sloping  towards  a  glassy  lake  over- 
hung by  limes  and  chestnuts,  and  backed  by  a  hanging  wood, 
the  house  itself  came  in  sight,  the  whole  prospect  seemed  sud- 
denly to  receive  its  finishing  and  crowning  feature.  The  house 
was  long  and  low.     A  deep  peristyle  that  supported  the  roof  ex- 


fiRMESt   MAtTkAVtftg,  49 

tended  the  whole  length,  and  being  raised  above  tiie  basement, 
had  the  appearance  of  a  covered  terrace;  broad  flights  of  steps, 
with  massive  balustrades,  supporting  vases  of  aloes  and  orange- 
trees,  led  to  the  lawn;  and  under  the  peristyle  were  arranged 
statues,  Roman  antiquities,  and  rare  exotics.  On  this  side  the 
lake  another  terrace,  very  broad,  and  adorned,  at  long  intervals, 
with  urns  and  sculpture,  contrasted  the  shadowy  and  sloping 
bank  beyond  ;  and  commanded,  through  unexpected  openings 
in  the  trees,  extensive  views  of  the  distant  landscape,  with  the 
stately  Thames  winding  through  the  midst.  Theinteriorof  the 
house  corresponded  with  the  taste  without.  All  the  principal 
rooms,  even  those  appropriated  to  sleep,  were  on  the  same  floor. 
A  small  but  lofty  and  octagonal  hall  conducted  to  a  suite  of  four 
rooms.  At  one  extremity  was  a  moderately  sized  dining-room, 
with  a  ceiling  copied  from  the  rich  and  gay  colors  of  Guido's 
"Hours";  and  landscapes  painted  by  Cleveland  himself,  with 
no  despicable  skill,  were  let  into  the  walls.  A  single  piece  of 
sculpture,  copied  from  the  Piping  Faun,  and  tinged  with  a  flesh- 
like glow  by  purple  and  orange  draperies  behind  it,  relieved 
without  darkening  the  broad  and  arched  window  which  formed 
its  niche.  This  communicated  with  a  small  picture-room,  not 
indeed  rich  with  those  immortal  gems  for  which  princes  are  can- 
didates; for  Cleveland's  fortune  was  but  that  of  a  private  gen- 
tleman, though  managed  with  a  discreet  if  liberal  economy,  it 
sufficed  for  all  his  elegant  desires.  But  the  pictures  had  an  in- 
terest beyond  that  of  art,  and  their  subjects  were  within  the 
reach  of  a  collector  of  ordinary  opulence.  They  made  a  series 
of  portraits — some  originals,  some  copies  (and  the  copies  were 
often  the  best)  of  Cleveland's  favorite  authors.  And  it  was 
characteristic  of  the  man,  that  Pope's  worn  and  thoughtful  coun- 
tenance looked  down  from  the  central  place  of  honor.  Appro- 
priately enough,  this  room  led  into  the  library,  the  largest  room 
in  the  house,  the  only  one  indeed  that  was  noticeable  from  its 
size,  as  well  as  from  its  embellishments.  It  was  nearly  sixty  feet 
in  length.  The  book-cases  were  crowned  with  bronze  busts, 
while  at  intervals,  statues,  placed  in  open  arches,  backed  with 
mirrors,  gave  the  appearance  of  galleries,  opening  from  the  book- 
lined  walls,  and  introduced  an  inconceivable  air  of  classic  light- 
ness and  repose  into  the  apartment ;  with  these  arches  the  win- 
dows harmonized  so  well,  opening  on  the  peristyle,  and  bringing 
into  delightful  view  the  sculpture,  the  flowers,  the  terraces,  and 
the  lake  without,  that  the  actual  prospects  half  seduced  you  into 
the  belief  that  they  were  designs  by  some  master  hand  of  the 
poetical  gardens  that  yet  crown  the  hills  of   Rome,     Even  the 


5 A  fiRNESt   MALTRAVERS. 

coloring  of  the  prospects  on  a  sunny  day  favored  the  delusion, 
owing  to  the  deep,  rich  hues  of  the  simple  draperies,  and  the 
stained  glass  of  which  the  upper  panes  of  the  windows  were  com- 
posed. Cleveland  was  especially  fond  of  sculpture;  he  was  sen- 
sible, too,  of  the  mighty  impulse  which  that  art  has  received  in 
Europe  within  the  last  half-century.  He  was  even  capable  of 
asserting  the  doctrine,  not  yet  sufficiently  acknowledged  in  this 
country,  that  Flaxman  surpassed  Canova.  He  loved  sculpture, 
too,  not  only  for  its  own  beauty,  but  for  the  beautifying  and  in- 
tellectual effect  that  it  produces  wherever  it  is  admitted.  It  is 
a  great  mistake,  he  was  wont  to  say,  in  collectors  of  statues,  to 
arrange  them  pdle  mile  in  one  long  monotonous  gallery.  The 
single  relief,  or  statue,  or  bust,  or  simple  urn,  introduced  appro- 
priately in  the  smallest  apartment  we  inhabit,  charms  us  infi- 
nitely more  than  those  gigantic  museums,  crowded  into  rooms 
never  entered  but  for  show,  and  without  a  chill,  uncomfortable 
shiver.  Besides,  this  practice  of  galleries,  which  the  herd  con- 
sider orthodox,  places  sculpture  out  of  the  patronage  of  the  pub- 
lic. There  are  not  a  dozen  people  who  can  afford  galleries. 
But  every  moderately  affluent  gentleman  can  afford  a  statue  or 
abust.  Theinfluence,  too,  upon  a  man's  mind  and  taste,  created 
by  the  constant  and  habitual  view  of  monuments  of  the  only 
imperishable  art  which  resorts  to  physical  materinls,  is  unspeak- 
able. Looking  upon  the  Greek  marble,  we  become  acquainted, 
almost  insensibly,  with  the  character  of  the  Greek  life  and  liter- 
ature. That  Aristides,  that  Genius  of  Death,  that  fragment  of 
the  unrivalled  Psyche,  are  worth  a  thousand  Scaligers  ! 

*'  Do  you  ever  look  at  the  Latin  translations  when  you  read 
^schylus?"  said  a  schoolboy  once  to  Cleveland. 

"That  is  my  Latin  translation,"  said  Cleveland,  pointing  to 
the  Lnocoon. 

The  lil)rary  opened,  at  the  extreme  end,  to  a  small  cabinet  for 
curiosities  and  medals,  which,  in  a  straight  line,  conducted  to  a 
long  belvidere,  terminating  in  a  little  circular  summer-house,  that 
by  a  sudden  wind  of  the  lake  below,  hung  perpendicularly  over  its 
transparent  tide,  and,  seen  from  the  distance,  appeared  almost 
suspended  on  air,  so  light  with  its  slender  columns  and  arching 
dome.  Another  door  from  the  library  opened  upon  the  cor- 
ridor which  conducted  to  the  principal  sleeping-chambers;  the 
nearest  was  that  of  Cleveland's  private  study,  communicating 
with  his  bedroom  and  dressing-closet.  The  other  rooms  were 
appropriated  to,  and  named  after,  his  several  friends. 

Mr.  Cleveland  had  been  advised  by  a  hasty  line  of  the  move- 
pients  of  his  ward,  and  he  received  the  young  man  with  a  smile 


ERNEST    MALTRAVER5,  gl 

of  welcome,  though  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his  lips  trcmbh:d — 
for  tlie  boy  was  like  his  father ! — a  new  generation  had  com- 
menced for  Cleveland. 

"Welcome,  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  he;  "I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you,  that  I  will  not  scold  you  for  your  mysterious  absence. 
This  is  your  room,  you  see  your  name  over  the  door;  it  is  a 
larger  one  than  you  used  to  have,  for  you  are  a  man  now;  and 
there  is  your  German  sanctum  adjoining — for  Schiller  and  the 
meerschaum  ! — a  bad  habit  that,  the  meerschaum!  butnotworse 
than  the  Schiller,  perhaps  !  You  see  you  are  in  the  peristyle  im- 
mediately. The  meerschaum  is  good  for  flowers,  I  fancy,  so  have 
no  scruple.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how  pale  you  are  !  Be  cheered — 
be  cheered.     Well,  I  must  go  myself,  or  you  will  infect  me." 

Cleveland  hurried  away;  he  thought  of  his  lost  friend.  Ernest 
sank  upon  the  first  chair,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Cleve- 
land's valet  entered,  and  bustled  about  and  unpacked  the  port- 
manteau, and  arranged  the  evening  dress.  But  Ernest  did  not 
look  up  nor  speak;  the  first  bell  sounded;  the  second  tolled 
unheard  upon  his  ear.  He  was  thoroughly  overcome  by  his 
emotions.  The  first  notes  of  Cleveland's  kind  voice  had  touched 
upon  a  soft  chord  that  months  of  anxiety  and  excitement  had 
strained  to  anguish,  but  had  never  woke  to  tears.  His  nerves 
were  shattered — those  strong  young  nerves  !  He  thought  of  his 
father  when  he  first  saw  Cleveland;  but  when  he  glanced  round 
the  room  prepared  for  him,  and  observed  the  care  for  his  com- 
fort, and  the  tender  recollections  of  his  most  trifling  peculiar- 
ities everywhere  visible,  Alice,  the  watchful,  the  humble,  the 
loving,  tlie  lost  Alice,  rose  before  him.  Surprised  at  his  ward's 
delay,  Cleveland  entered  the  room  ;  there  sot  Ernest  still,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands.  Cleveland  drew  them  gently  away, 
and  Maltravers  sobbed  like  an  infant.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to 
l)ring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  that  young  man:  a  generous  or  tender 
thought,  an  old  song,  the  simplest  air  of  music,  sufficed  for  that 
toucn  of  the  mother's  nature.  But  the  vehement  and  awful  pas- 
sion which  belongs  to  manhood  when  thoroughly  unmanned — • 
this  was  the  first  time  in  which  the  relief  of  the  stormy  bitter- 
ness was  known  to  him  ! 


52  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
"  Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind," — SPENCER. 

"  Then  forth  issued  from  under  the  altar-smoke 
A  dreadful  fiend." — Ibid,  on  Superstition. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  is  over  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  that  we 
pass  the  narrow  gulf  from  Youth  to  Manhood.  That  interval 
is  usually  occupied  by  an  ill-placed  or  disappointed  affection. 
We  recover,  and  we  find  ourselves  a  new  being.  The  intellect 
has  become  hardened  by  the  fire  through  which  it  has  passed. 
The  mind  profits  by  the  wrecks  of  every  passion,  and  we  may 
measure  our  road  to  wisdom  by  the  sorrows  we  liave  undergone. 
But  Maltravers  was  yet  on  the  bridge,  and,  for  a  time,  both  mind 
and  body  were  prostrate  and  enfeebled.  Cleveland  had  the 
sagacity  to  discover  that  the  affections  had  their  share  in  the 
change  that  he  grieved  to  witness,  but  he  had  also  the  delicacy 
not  to  force  himself  into  the  young  man's  confidence.  But  by 
little  and  little  his  kindness  so  completely  penetrated  the  heart 
of  his  ward,  that  Ernest  one  evening  told  him  his  whole  tale. 
As  a  man  of  the  world,  Cleveland  perhaps  rejoiced  that  it  was 
no  worse,  for  he  had  feared  some  existing  entanglement  perhaps 
with  a  married  woman.  But  as  a  man  who  was  better  than  the 
World  in  general,  he  sympathized  with  the  unfortunate  girl  whom 
Ernest  pictured  to  him  in  faithful  and  unflattered  colors,  and  he 
long  forebore  consolation  which  he  foresaw  would  be  unavail- 
ing. He  felt,  indeed, .that  Ernest  was  not  a  man  to  "betray  the 
noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle-shade  "  ; — that  with  so  sanguine, 
buoyant,  and  hardy  a  temperament,  he  would  at  length  recover 
from  a  depression  which,  if  it  could  bequeath  a  warning,  might 
as  well  not  be  wholly  divested  of  remorse.  And  he  also  knew 
that  few  became  either  great  authors  or  great  men  (and  he  fan- 
cied Ernest  was  born  to  be  one  or  the  other),  without  the  fierce 
emotions  and  passionate  struggles,  through  which  the  Wilhelra 
Meister  of  real  life  must  work  out  his  apprenticeship,  and  attain 
the  Master  Rank.  But  at  last  he  had  serious  misgivings  about  the 
health  of  his  ward.  A  constant  and  spectral  gloom  seemed  bear- 
ing the  young  man  to  the  grave.  It  was  in  vain  that  Cleveland, 
who  secretly  desired  him  to  thirst  for  a  public  career,  endeavored 
to  arouse  his  ambition — the  boy's  spirit  seemed  quite  broken — 
and  the  visit  of  a  political  character,  the  mention  of  a  political 
work,  drove  him  at  once  into  his  solitary  chamber.  At  length  his 
mental  disease  took  a  new  turn.  He  became,  of  a  sudden,  most 
morbidly  and  fanatically — I  was  about  to  say,  religious :  but 


ERNEST    MALTRAVKRS.  53 

that  is  not  the  word;  let  me  call  it  pseudo-religious.  His  strong 
sense  and  cultivated  taste  did  not  allow  him  to  delight  in  the 
raving  tracts  of  illiterate  fanatics — and  yet  out  of  the  benign 
and  simple  elements  of  the  Scripture  he  conjured  up  for  him- 
self a  fanaticism  quite  as  gloomy  and  intense.  He  lost  sight  of 
God  the  Father,  and  night  and  day  dreamt  only  of  God  the 
Avenger.  His  vivid  imagination  was  perverted  to  raise  out  of  its 
own  abyss  phantoms  of  colossal  terror.  He  shuddered  aghast 
at  his  own  creations,  and  earth  and  heaven  alike  seemed  black 
with  the  everlasting  wrath.  These  symptoms  completely  baffled 
and  perplexed  Cleveland.  He  knew  not  v/hat  remedy  to  ad- 
minister— and  to  his  unspeakable  grief  and  surprise  he  found 
that  Ernest,  in  the  true  spirit  of  his  strange  bigotry,  began  to 
regard  Cleveland — the  amiable,  the  benevolent  Cleveland — as 
one  no  less  out  of  the  pale  of  grace  than  himself.  His  elegant 
])ursuits,  his  cheerful  studies,  were  considered  by  the  young  but 
stern  enthusiast  as  the  miserable  recreations  of  Mammon  and 
the  world.  There  seemed  every  probability  that  Ernest  Mal- 
travers  would  die  in  a  madhouse,  or,  at  best,  succeed  to  the  de- 
lusions, without  the  cheerful  intervals,  of  Cowper. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit. 

Restless — unfixed  in  principles  and  place. — Dryden. 

"  Whoever  acquires  a  very  great  number  of  ideas  interesting  to  the  society 
in  which  he  lives,  will  be  regarded  in  that  society  as  a  man  of  abilities. 

Helvetius. 

It  was  just  when  Ernest  Maltravers  was  so  bad  that  he  could 
not  be  worse,  that  a  young  man  visited  Temple  Grove.  The 
name  of  this  young  man  was  Lumley  Ferrers,  his  age  about 
twenty-six,  his  fortune  about  eight  hundred  a  year — he  followed 
no  profession.  Lumley  Ferrers  had  not  what  is  usually  called 
genius;  that  is,  he  had  no  enthusiasm;  and  if  the  word  talent 
be  properly  interpreted  as  meaning  the  talent  of  doing  some- 
thing better  than  others,  Ferrers  had  not  much  to  boast  of  on 
that  score.  He  had  no  talent  for  writing,  nor  for  music,  nor 
painting,  nor  the  ordinary  round  of  accomplishments;  neither 
at  present  had  he  displayed  much  of  the  hard  and  useful  talent 
for  action  and  business.  But  Ferrers  had  what  is  often  better 
than  genius  or  talent;  he  had  a  powerful  and  most  acute  mind. 

He  had,  moreover,  great  animation  of  manner,  high  physical 
spirits,  a  witty,  odd,  racy  vein  of  conversation^  deterrninecj  <iS5m:» 


54  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

ance,  and  profound  confidence  in  his  own  resources.  He  was 
fond  of  schemes,  stratagems,  and  plots — they  amused  and  ex- 
cited him — liis  power  of  sarcasm,  and  of  argument,  too,  was 
great,  and  he  usually  obtained  an  astonishing  influence  over  those 
with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact.  His  high  spirits  and  a 
most  happy  frankness  of  bearing  carried  off  and  disguised  his 
leading  vices  of  character,  which  were  callousness  to  what- 
ever was  affectionate,  and  insensibility  to  whatever  was  moral. 
Though  less  learned  than  Maltravers,  hewason  the  wholea  very 
instructed  man.  He  mastered  the  surface  of  many  sciences, 
because  satisfied  with  their  general  principles,  and  threw  the  study 
aside  never  to  be  forgotten  (for  his  memory  was  like  a  vice)  but 
never  to  be  prosecuted  any  further.  To  this  he  added  a  general 
acquaintance  with  whatever  is  most  generally  acknowledged  as 
standard  in  ancient  or  modern  literature.  What  is  admired  only 
by  a  few,  Lumley  never  took  tlie  trouble  to  read.  Living  amongst 
trifles,  he  made  them  interesting  and  novel  by}iiis  mode  of  view- 
ing and  treating  them.  And  here  indeed  was  a  talent — it  was  the 
talent  of  social  life — the  talent  of  enjoyment  to  the  utmost  with 
the  least  degree  of  trouble  to  himself.  Lumley  Ferrers  was  thus 
exactly  one  of  those  men  whom  everybody  calls  exceedingly 
clever,  and  yet  it  would  puzzle  one  to  say  in  what  he  was  so  clever. 
It  was,  indeed,  that  nameless  power  which  belongs  to  ability, 
and  which  makes  one  man  superior,  on  the  whole,  to  another, 
though,  in  many  details  by  no  means  remarkable.  I  think  it  is 
Goethe  who  says  somewhere,  that  in  reading  the  life  of  the  greatest 
genius,  we  always  find  that  he  was  acquainted  with  some  men 
superior  to  himself,  who  yet  never  attained  to  general  distinction. 
Totheclassof  these  mystical  superior  men  Lumley  Ferrers  might 
have  belonged;  for  though  an  ordinary  journalist  would  have 
beaten  him  in  the  arts  of  composition,  few  men  of  genius,  how' 
ever  eminent,  could  have  felt  themselves  above  Ferrers  in  the 
ready  grasp  and  plastic  vigor  of  natural  intellect.  It  only  re- 
mains to  be  said  of  this  singular  young  man,  whose  character  as 
yet  was  but  half  developed,  that  he  iiad  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world,  and  could  live  at  ease  and  in  content  with  all  the  tem- 
pers and  ranks ;  fox-hunters  or  scholars,  lawyers  or  poets, 
patricians  ox  pantenus,  it  was  all  one  to  Lumley  Ferrers. 

Ernest  was,  as  usual,  in  his  own  room  when  he  heard,  along 
the  corridor  without,  all  that  indefinable  bustling  noise  which 
announces  an  arrival.  Next  came  a  most  ringing  laugh,  and 
then  a  sharp,  clear,  vigorous  voice,  that  ran  through  his  ears  like 
a  dagger.  Ernest  was  immediately  aroused  to  all  the  majesty  of 
indignant  suUenness,     He  w^iked  out  on  the  terrace  of  the  por^ 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  55 

tico,  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  the  disturbance  :  and  once  more 
settled  back  into  his  broken  and  hypochondriacal  reveries. — 
Pacing  to  and  fro  that  part  of  the  peristyle  which  occupied  the 
more  retired  wing  of  the  house,  with  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes 
downcast,  his  brows  knit,  and  all  the  angel  darkened  on  that 
countenance,  which  formerly  looked  as  if,  like  truth,  it  could 
shame  the  devil  and  defy  the  world,  Ernest  followed  the  evil 
thought  that  mastered  him,  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow. 
Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  something — some  obstacle  which  he 
had  not  previously  encountered.  He  started,  and  saw  before  him 
a  young  man,  of  plain  dress,  gentlemanlike  appearance,  and 
striking  countenance. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  think,"  said  the  stranger,  and  Ernest  recog- 
nized the  voice  that  had  so  disturbed  him  ;  "this  is  lucky  ;  we 
can  now  introduce  ourselves,  for  I  find  Cleveland  means  us  to 
be  intimate.  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers,  Mr.  Ernest  Maltravers.  There 
now,  I  am  the  elder,  so  I  first  offer  my  hand,  and  grin  properly. 
People  always  grin  when  they  make  a  nevv  acquaintance  !  Well, 
that's  settled.     Which  way  are  you  walking?" 

Maltravers,  could,  when  he  chose  it,  be  as  stately  as  if  he  never 
had  been  out  of  England.  He  now  drew  himself  up  in  displeased 
astonishment ;  extricated  his  hand  from  the  grip  of  Ferrers,  and 
saying,  very  coldly, "  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  am  busy,"  stalked  back  to 
his  chamber.  He  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and  was  pres- 
ently forgetful  of  his  late  annoyance,  when,  to  his  inexpressible 
amazement  and  wrath,  he  heard  again  the  sharp,  clear  voice 
close  to  his  elbow. 

Ferrers  had  followed  him  through  the  French  casement  into 
the  room.  "  You  are  busy,  you  say,  my  dear  fellow.  I  want  to 
write  some  letters :  we  shan't  interrupt  each  other — don't  dis- 
turb yourself":  and  Ferrers  seated  himself  at  the  writing-table, 
dipped  the  pen  into  the  ink,  arranged  blotting-book  and  paper 
before  him  in  due  order,  and  was  soon  employed  in  covering 
page  after  page  with  the  most  rapid  and  hieroglyphical  scrawl 
that  ever  engrossed  a  mistress,  or  perplexed  a  dun. 

"  The  presuming  puppy  !  "  growled  Maltravers,  half  audibly, 
but  effectually  roused  from  himself  ;  and  examining  with  some 
curiosity  so  cool  an  intruder,  he  was  forced  to  own  that  the 
countenance  of  Ferrers  was  not  that  of  a  puppy. 

A  forehead  compact  and  solid  as  a  rock  of  granite,  overhung 
small,  bright,  intelligent  eyes  of  a  light  hazel ;  the  features  were 
handsome,  yet  rather  too  sharp  and  fox-like  ;  the  complexion, 
though  not  highly  colored,  was  of  that  hardy,  healthy  hue  which 
generally  betpkeps  ft  robust  CQnstitutipn,  and  high  animal  spirits ; 


$6  ERNEST    MALTKAVER3. 

the  jaw  was  massive,  and,  to  a  physiognomist,  betokened  firm- 
ness  and  strength  of  character ;  but  the  lips,  full  and  large, 
were  those  of  a  sensualist,  and  their  restless  i)]ay,  and  habitual 
half-smile,  spoke  of  gaiety  and  humor,  though  when  in  repose 
there  was  in  them  something  furtive  and  sinister. 

Maltravers  looked  at  him  in  grave  silence  ;  but  when  Ferrers, 
concluding  his  fourth  letter  before  another  man  would  have  got 
through  his  first  page,  threw  down  the  pen,  and  looked  full  at 
Maltravers,  with  a  good-humored  but  penetrating  stare,  there 
was  something  so  whimsical  in  the  intruder's  expression  of  face, 
and  indeed  in  the  whole  scene,  that  Maltravers  bit  his  lip  to 
restrain  a  smile,  the  first  he  had  known  for  weeks. 

"I  see  you  read,  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  carelessly  turning 
over  the  volumes  on  the  table.  "All  very  right :  we  should  begin 
life  with  books;  they  multiply  the  sources  of  employment;  so 
does  cai)ital ;  but  capital  is  of  no  use,  unless  we  live  on  the  in- 
terest ; — books  are  waste  paper,  unless  we  spend  in  action  the 
wisdom  we  get  from  thought.  Action,  Maltravers,  action  ;  that 
is  the  life  for  us.  At  our  age  we  have  passion,  fancy,  sentiment ; 
we  can't  read  them  away,  nor  scribble  them  away  ;  we  must  live 
upon  them  generously,  but  economically." 

Maltravers  was  struck  ;  the  intruder  was  not  the  empty  bore 
he  had  chosen  to  fancy  him.  He  roused  himself  languidly  to 
reply.     "Life,  Mr.  Ferrers — " 

"  Stop,  mon  cher.  stop  ;  don't  call  me  Mister  ;  we  are  to  be 
friends  ;  I  hate  delaying  that  which  must  be,  even  by  a  super- 
fluous dissyllable  ;  you  are  Maltravers,  I  am  Ferrers.  But  you 
were  going  to  talk  about  life.  Suppose  we  live  a  little  while, 
instead  of  talking  about  it.  It  wants  an  hour  to  dinner  ;  let  us 
stroll  into  the  grounds  ;  I  want  to  get  an  appetite; — besides,  I 
like  nature  when  there  are  no  Swiss  mountains  to  climb  before 
one  can  arrive  at  a  prospect.     Allans !" 

"  Excuse — "again  began  Maltravers,  half  interested,  half  an- 
noyed. 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  I  do.     Come." 

Ferrers  gave  Maltravers  his  hat,  wound  his  arm  into  that  of 
his  new  acquaintance,  and  they  were  on  the  broad  terrace  by 
the  lake  before  Ernest  was  aware  of  it. 

How  animated,  how  eccentric,  how  easy  was  Ferrers's  talk  (for 
talk  it  was,  rather  than  conversation,  since  he  had  the  ball  to 
himself)  ;  books,  and  men,  and  things  ;  he  tossed  them  about 
and  played  with  them  like  shuttlecocks  ;  and  then  his  egotistical 
narrative  of  half  a  hundred  adventures,  in  which  he  was  the 
herOj  told  so,  that  you  laughed  al  him  and  laughed  with  him, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  57 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


"  Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east." — Milton. 

Hitherto  Ernest  had  never  met  with  any  mind  that  had 
exercised  a  strong  influence  over  his  own.  At  home,  at  school, 
at  Gottingen,  everywhere,  he  had  been  the  brilliant  and  way- 
ward leader  of  others,  persuading  or  commanding  wiser  and 
older  heads  than  his  own  ;  even  Cleveland  always  yielded  to  him, 
though  not  aware  of  it.  In  fact,  it  seldom  happens  that  we  are 
very  strongly  influenced  by  those  much  older  than  ourselves.  It 
is  the  Senior,  of  from  two  to  ten  years,  that  most  seduces  and 
enthrals  us.  He  has  the  same  pursuits — views,  objects,  pleasures, 
but  more  art  and  experience  in  them  all.  He  goes  with  us  in 
the  path  we  are  ordained  to  tread,  but  from  which  the  elder 
generation  desires  to  warn  us  off.  There  is  very  little  influence 
where  there  is  not  great  sympathy.  It  is  now  an  epoch  in  the  in- 
tellectual life  of  Maltravers.  He  met  for  the  first  time  with  a 
mind  that  controlled  his  own.  Perhaps  the  physical  state  of 
his  nerves  made  him  less  able  to  cope  with  the  half-bullying, 
but  thoroughly  good-humored  imperiousnessof  Ferrers.  Every 
day  this  stranger  became  more  and  more  potential  with  Mal- 
travers. Ferrers,  who  was  an  utter  egotist,  never  asked  his  new 
friend  to  give  him  his  confidence  ;  he  never  cared  three  straws 
about  other  people's  secrets,  unless  useful  to  some  purpose  of  his 
own.  But  he  talked  with  so  much  zest  about  himself — about 
women  and  pleasure,  and  the  gay,  stirring  life  of  cities — that  the 
young  spirit  of  Maltravers  was  roused  from  its  dark  lethargy 
without  an  effort  of  its  own.  The  gloomy  phantoms  vanished 
gradually — his  sense  broke  from  its  cloud — he  felt  once  more 
that  God  had  given  the  sun  to  light  the  day,  and  even  in  the 
midst  of  darkness  had  called  up  the  host  of  stars. 

Perhaps  no  other  person  could  have  succeeded  so  speedily 
in  curing  Maltravers  of  his  diseased  enthusiasm  :  a  crude  or  sar- 
castic unbeliever  he  would  not  have  listened  to  ;  a  moderate  and 
enlightened  divine  he  would  have  disregarded,  as  a  worldly  and 
cunning  adjuster  of  laws  celestial  with  customs  earthly.  But 
Lumley  Ferrers,  who,  when  he  argued,  never  admitted  a  senti- 
ment or  a  simile  in  reply,  who  wielded  his  plain  iron  logic  like 
a  hammer,  which,  though  its  metal  seemed  dull,  kindled  the 
ethereal  spark  with  every  stroke — Lumley  Ferrers  was  just  the 
man  to  resist  the  imagination,  and  convince  the  reason,  of  Mal- 
travers ;  and  the  moment  the  matter  came  to  argument,  the  cure 


58  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

was  soon  completed  :  for,  however  we  may  darken  and  puzzle 
ourselves  with  fancies  and  visions,  and  the  ingenuities  of  fanatical 
mysticism,  no  man  can  mathematically  or  syllogistically  contend 
that  the  world  which  a  God  made,  and  a  Saviour  visited,  was 
designed  to  be  damned  ! 

And  Ernest  Maltravers  one  night  softly  stole  to  his  room  and 
opened  the  New  Testament,  and  read  its  heavenly  moralities 
with  purged  eyes  ;  and  when  he  had  done,  he  fell  upon  his  knees, 
and  prayed  the  Almighty  to  pardon  the  ungrateful  heart  that, 
worse  than  the  Atheist's,  had  confessed  His  Existence,  but  de- 
nied His  goodness.  His  sleep  was  sweet  and  his  dreams  were 
cheerful.  Did  he  rise  to  find  that  the  penitence  which  had 
shaken  his  reason  would  henceforth  sufifice  to  save  his  life  from 
all  error?  Alas!  remorse  overstrained  has  too  often  reactions 
as  dangerous;  and  homely  Luther  says  well,  that  "the  mind, 
like  the  drunken  peasant  on  horseback,  when  propped  on  one 
side,  nods  and  falls  on  the  other." — All  that  can  be  said  is.  that 
there  are  certain  crises  in  life  which  leave  us  long  weaker  ;  from 
which  the  system  recovers  with  frequent  revulsion  and  weary 
relapse, — but  from  which,  looking  back,  after  years  have  passed 
on,  we  date  the  foundation  of  strength  or  the  cure  of  dis- 
ease. It  is  not  to  mean  souls  that  creation  is  darkened  by  a 
fear  of  the  anger  of  Heaven. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  There  are  times  when  we  are  diverted  out  of  errors,  but  could  not  be 
preached  out  of  them — There  are  practitioners  who  can  cure  us  cf  one  disor- 
der, though,  in  ordinary  cases,  they  be  but  poor  physicians — nay,  dangerous 
quacks." — Stephen  Montague. 

IvUMLEY  Ferrers  had  one  rule  in  life  ;  and  it  was  this — to 
make  all  things  and  all  persons  subservient  to  himself.  And 
Ferrers  now  intended  to  go  abroad  for  some  years.  He  wanted 
a  companion,  for  he  disliked  solitude  :  besides,  a  companion 
shared  the  expenses  ;  and  a  man  of  eight  hundred  a  year,  who 
desires  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  does  not  despise  a  partner  in  the 
taxes  to  be  paid  for  them.  Ferrers,  at  this  period,  rather  liked 
Ernest  than  not  :  it  was  convenient  to  choose  friends  from 
those  richer  than  himself,  and  he  resolved,  when  he  first  came 
to  Temple  Grove,  that  Ernest  should  be  his  travelling  compan- 
ion,    'i'his  resolution  formed,  it  was  very  easy  to  execute  it. 

Maltravers  was  now  warmly  attached  to  his  new  friend,  and 
eager  for  a  change.  Cleveland  was  sorry  to  part  with  him  ;  but 
he  dreaded  a  relapse,  if  the  young  man  were  again  left  upon  his 
hands.     Accordingly,  the  guardian's  consent  was  obtained  ;  a 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  59 

travelling-carriage  was  bouglit,  and  fitted  up  with  every  imagin- 
able imperial  and  malle.  A  Swiss  (half  valet  and  half  courier) 
was  engaged,  one  thousand  a  year  was  allowed  to  Maltravers  ; 
and  one  soft  and  lovely  morning,  towards  the  close  of  October, 
Ferrers  and  Maltravers  found  themselves  midway  on  the  road 
to  Dover. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  get  out  of  England,"  said  Ferrers  :  "it 
is  a  famous  country  for  the  rich  ;  but  here,  eight  hundred  a 
year,  without  a  profession,  save  that  of  pleasure,  goes  upon 
pepper  and  salt  ;  it  is  a  luxurious  competence  abroad." 

"I  think  I  have  heard  Cleveland  say  that  you  will  be  rich 
some  day  or  other." 

"Oh  yes:  I  have  what  are  called  expectations  !  You  must 
know  that  I  have  a  kind  of  settlement  on  two  stools,  the  Well- 
born and  the  Wealthy  ;  but  between  two  stools — you  recollect 
the  proverb  !  The  present  Lord  Saxingham,  once  plain  Frank 
Lascelles,  and  my  father,  Mr.  Ferrers,  were  first  cousins.  Two 
or  three  relations  good-naturedly  died,  and  Frank  Lascelles  be- 
came an  earl ;  the  lands  did  not  go  with  the  coronet :  he  was 
poor,  and  married  an  heiress.  The  lady  died  ;  her  estate  was 
settled  on  her  only  child,  the  handsomest  little  girl  you  ever 
saw.  Pretty  Florence,  I  often  wish  I  could  look  up  to  you  .' 
Her  fortune  will  be  nearly  all  at  her  own  disposal,  too,  when  she 
comes  of  age;  now  she's  in  the  nursery,  'eating  bread  and 
honey.'  My  father,  less  lucky  and  less  wise  than  his  cousin, 
thought  fit  to  marry  a  Miss  Templeton — a  nobody.  The  Saxing- 
ham branch  of  the  family  politely  dropped  the  acquaintance. 
Now,  my  motiier  had  a  brother,  a  clever,  plodding  fellow,  in 
what  is  called  'business';  he  became  rich  and  richer:  but  my 
father  and  mother  died,  and  were  never  the  better  for  it.  And 
I  came  of  age,  and  worth  (I  like  that  expression)  not  a  farthing 
more  or  less  than  this  oft-quoted  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
My  rich  uncle  is  married,  but  has  no  children.  I  am,  therefore, 
heir-presumptive, — but  he  is  a  saint,  and  close,  though  ostenta- 
tious. The  quarrel  between  Uncle  Templeton  and  the  Saxing- 
hams  still  continues.  Templeton  is  angry  if  I  see  the  Saxing- 
hams — and  the  Saxinghams — my  lord,  at  least — is  by  no  means 
so  sure  that  I  shall  be  Templeton's  heir  as  not  to  feel  a  doubt 
lest  I  should  some  day  or  other  sponge  upon  his  lordship  for  a 
place.  Lord  Saxingham  is  in  the  administration,  you  know. 
Somehow  or  other  I  have  an  equivocal,  amphibious  kind  of  place 
in  London  society,  which  I  don't  like  ;  on  one  side  I  am  a  pa- 
trician connection,  whom  the  parvenu  branches  incline  lovingly 
to — and  on  the  other  side  I  am  a  half-dependent  cadet,  whom 


60  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

the  noble  relations  look  civilly  shy  at.  Some  day,  when  I  grow 
tired  of  travel  and  idleness,  I  shall  come  back  and  wrestle  with 
these  little  difficulties,  conciliate  my  meihodistical  uncle,  and 
grapple  with  my  noble  cousin.  But  now  1  am  fit  for  something 
better  than  getting  on  in  the  world.  Drychips,  not  green  wood, 
are  things  for  making  a  blaze  !  How  slow  this  fellow  drives  ! 
Hollo,  you  sir  !  get  on  !  mind,  twelve  miles  to  the  hour  !  You 
shall  have  sixpence  a  mile.  Give  me  your  purse,  Maltravers  ;  I 
may  as  well  be  cashier,  being  the  elder  and  the  wiser  man  ;  we 
can  settle  accounts  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  By  Jove,  what  a 
pretty  girl !" 


BOOK    II. 

Ovt/Tuv  6'ofpa  Tig  avdog  exy  noTivrjparov  i/firip, 
Koixpov  ixorv  dvfiuv,  t^oKK  drD^aTa  voel. 

SiMONiDES,  in  Fit.  Hum. 

He,  of  wide-blooming  youth's  fair  flower  possest, 
Owns  the  vain  thoughts — the  heart  that  cannot  rest  !  " 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  II  y  eut  certainement  quelque  cho«e  de  singulier  dans  mes  seutimens 
pour  cette  charmante  femme."  * — Rousseau. 

It  was  a  brilliant  ball  at  the  Palazzo  of  the  Austrian  embassy 
at  Naples ;  and  a  crowd  of  those  loungers,  whether  young  or 
old,  who  attach  themselves  to  the  reigning  beauty,  was  gath- 
ered around  Madame  de  Ventadour.  Generally  speaking,  there 
is  more  caprice  than  taste  in  the  election  of  a  beauty  to  the 
Idalian  throne.  Nothing  disappoints  a  stranger  more  than  to 
see  for  the  first  time  the  woman  to  whom  the  world  has  given 
the  golden  apple.  Yet  he  usually  falls  at  last  into  the  popular 
idolatry,  and  passes  with  inconceivable  rapidity  from  indignant 
scepticism  into  superstitious  veneration.  In  fact,  a  thousand 
things  beside  mere  symmetry  of  feature  go  to  make  up  the  Cy- 
therea  of  the  hour. .  .  tact  in  society — the  charm  of  manner — 
a  nameless  and  piquant  brilliancy.  Where  the  world  find  the 
Graces  they  proclaim  the  Venus.  Few  persons  attain  pre-emi- 
nent celebrity  for  anything,  without  some  adventitious  and 
extraneous  circumstances  which  have  nothing  to  do  with   the 

♦There  certainly  was  something  singular  in  my  sentiments  for  this  charming  woman. 


ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS.  6 1 

thing  celebrated.  Some  qualities  or  some  circumstances  throw 
a  niysterious  or  personal  cliarm  about  them. — "  Is  Mr.  So- 
and-So  really  such  a  genius?" — "Is  Mrs.  Such-a-One  really 
such  a  beauty  ?  "  you  ask  incredulously.  "  Oh,  yes,"  is  the  an- 
swer. "  Do  you  know  all  about  him  or  her  ?  Such  a  thing  is 
said,  or  such  a  thing  has  happened."  The  idol  is  interesting 
in  itself,  and  therefore  its  leading  and  popular  attribute  is  wor- 
shipped. 

Now  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  at  this  time  the  beauty  of  Na- 
ples :  and  though  fifty  women  in  the  room  were  handsomer,  no 
one  would  have  dared  to  say  so.  Even  the  women  confessed  her 
pre-eminence — for  she  was  the  most  perfect  dresser  that  even 
France  could  exhibit.  And  to  no  pretensions  do  ladies  ever  con- 
cede with  so  little  demur,  as  those  which  depend  upon  that  fem- 
inine art  which  all  study,  and  in  which  few  excel.  Women  never 
allow  beauty  in  a  face  that  has  an  odd-looking  bonnet  above  it,  nor 
will  they  readily  allow  any  one  to  be  ugly  whose  caps  are  unexcep- 
tionable. Madame  de  Ventadour  had  also  the  magic  that  results 
from  high  breeding,  polished  by  habit  to  the  utmost.  She  looked 
and  moved  \h^grande  dame,  as  if  Nature  had  been  employed  by 
Rank  to  make  her  so.  She  was  descended  from  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  houses  of  France  ;  had  married  at  sixteen  a  man  of 
equal  birth,  but  old,  dull,  and  pompous — a  caricature  rather  than 
a  portrait  of  that  great  French  noblesse,  now  almost  if  not  wholly 
extinct.  But  her  virtue  was  without  a  blemish — some  said  from 
pride,  some  said  from  coldness.  Her  wit  was  keen  and  court- 
like— lively,  yet  subdued;  for  her  French  high  breeding  was  very 
different  from  the  lethargic  and  taciturn  imperturbability  of  the 
English.  All  silent  people  can  seem  conventionally  elegant.  A 
groom  married  a  rich  lady  ;  he  dreaded  the  ridicule  of  the  guests 
whom  his  new  rank  assembled  at  his  table — an  Oxford  clergy- 
man gave  him  this  piece  of  advice,  "  Wear  a  black  coat  and  hold 
your  tongue  !  "  The  groom  took  the  hint,  and  is  always  consid- 
ered one  of  the  most  gentlemanlike  fellows  in  the  county.  Con- 
versation is  the  touchstone  of  the  true  delicacy  and  subtle  grace 
which  make  the  ideal  of  the  moral  mannerism  of  a  court.  And 
there  sat  Madame  de  Ventadour,  a  little  apart  from  the  dancers, 
with  the  silent  English  dandy  Lord  Taunton,  exquisitely  dressed 
and  superbly  tall,  bolt  upright  behind  her  chair ;  and  the  senti- 
mental German  Baron  von  Schomberg,  covered  with  orders, 
whiskered  and  wigged  to  the  last  hair  of  perfection,  sighing  at  her 
left  hand  ;  and  the  French  minister,  shrewd,  bland,  and  eloquent, 
in  the  chair  at  her  right;  and  round  on  all  sides  pressed,  and 
bowed,  and  complimented  a  crowd  of  diplomatic  secretaries  and 


62  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Italian  princes,  whose  bank  is  at  the  gaming  table,  whose  estates 
are  in  their  galleries,  and  who  sell  a  picture  as  English  gentle- 
men cut  down  a  wood,  whenever  the  cards  grow  gloomy.  The 
charming  De  Ventadour!  she  had  attraction  for  them  all !  smiles 
for  the  silent,  badinage  for  the  gay,  politics  for  the  Frenchman, 
poetry  for  the  German,  the  eloquence  of  loveliness  for  all !  She 
was  looking  her  best — the  slightest  possible  tinge  of  rouge  gave 
a  glow  to  her  transparent  complexion,  and  lighted  up  those  large 
dark  sparkling  eyes  (with  a  latent  softness  beneath  the  sparkle), 
seldom  seen  but  in  the  French  and  widely  distinct  from  the  un- 
intellectual  languish  of  the  Spaniard,  or  the  full  and  majestic 
fierceness  of  the  Italian  gaze.  Her  dress  of  black  velvet  and 
graceful  hat  with  its  princely  plume,  contrasted  the  alabaster 
whiteness  of  her  arms  and  neck.  And  what  with  the  eyes,  the 
skin,  the  rich  coloring  of  the  complexion,  the  rosy  lips,  and  the 
small  ivory  teeth,  no  one  would  have  had  the  cold  hypercriti- 
cism  to  observe  that  the  chin  was  too  pointed,  the  mouth  too 
wide,  and  the  nose,  so  beautiful  in  the  front  face,  was  far  from 
perfect  in  the  profile. 

"Pray  was  Madame  in  the  Strada  Nuova  to-day?"  asked  the 
German,  with  as  much  sweetness  in  his  voice  as  if  he  had  been 
vowing  eternal  love. 

"  What  else  have  we  to  do  with  our  mornings,  we  women  ? "  re- 
plied Madame  de  Ventadour.  "  Our  life  is  a  lounge  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave ;  and  our  afternoons  are  but  the  type  of  our 
career.  A  promenade  and  a  crowd, — voilatout!  We  never  see 
the  world  except  in  an  open  carriage." 

"It  is  the  pleasantest  way  of  seeing  it,"  said  the  Frenchman, 
dryly. 

"  I  doubt  it ,  the  worst  fatigue  is  that  which  comes  without  ex- 
ercise." 

"Will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  waltz?"  said  the  tall  English 
lord,  who  had  a  vague  idea  that  Madame  de  Ventadour  meant 
she  would  rather  dance  than  sit  still.     The  Frenchman  smiled. 

"LordTaunton  enforces  myown  philosophy,"  said  the  minister. 

Lord  Taunton  smiled  because  every  one  else  smiled  ;  and,  be- 
sides, he  had  beautiful  teeth  ;  but  he  looked  anxious  for  an  answer, 

"  Not  to-night, — I  seldom  dance.  Who  is  that  very  pretty 
woman? — What  lovely  complexions  the  English  have!  And  who," 
continued  Madame  de  Ventadour,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer to  the  first  question,  "  who  is  that  gentleman, — the  young 
one  I  mean, — leaning  against  the  door?" 

"What,  with  the  dark  moustache?"  said  Lord  Taunton — "he 
is  a  cousin  of  mine." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  63 

"Oh,  no ;  not  Colonel  Bellfield  ;  I  know  him — how  amusing 
he  is ! — no  ;  the  gentleman  I  mean  wears  no  moustache." 

"Oh,  the  tall  Englishman  with  the  bright  eyes  and  high  fore- 
head," said  the  French  Minister.  "He  has  just  arrived — from 
the  East,  I  believe." 

"It  is  a  striking  countenance,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour, 
"there  is  something  chivalrous  in  the  turn  of  the  head.  Without 
doubt,  Lord  Taunton,  he  is  ^ noble.'" 

"He  is  what  you  call  ^  noble,'"  replied  Lord  Taunton — "that 
is,  what  we  call  a '  gentleman  ';  his  name  is  Maltravers — Mr.  Mal- 
travers — he  lately  came  of  age  ;  and  has,  I  believe,  rather  a  good 
property." 

"  Monsieur  Maltravers;  only  Monsieur !"  repeated  Madame 
de  Ventadour. 

"Why,"  said  the  French  Minister,  "you  understand  that  the 
English  _j^(?//////!tf/;/w^  does  not  require  a  Dc  or  a  title  to  distinguish 
him  from  the  roturier." 

"  I  know  that ;  but  he  has  an  air  above  a  simple  gentilhomme. 
There  is  something  _jf /Yd;/ in  his  look  ;  but  it  is  not,  I  must  own, 
the  conventional  greatness  of  rank :  perhaps  he  would  have  looked 
the  same  had  he  been  born  a  peasant." 

"  You  don't  think  him  handsome  !  "  said  I^ord  Taunton,  almost 
angrily  (for  he  was  one  of  the  Beauty-men,  and  Beauty-men  are 
sometimes  jealous). 

"Handsome  !  I  did  not  say  that,"  replied  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour, smiling  ;  "  it  is  rather  a  fine  head  than  a  handsome  face.  Is 
he  clever,  I  wonder?  but  all  you  English,  milord,  are  well  edu- 
cated." 

"  Yes,  profound — profound  :  we  are  profound,  not  superficial," 
re])lied  Lord  Taunton,  drawing  down  his  wristbands. 

"Will  Madame  de  Ventadour  allow  me  to  present  to  her  one 
of  my  countrymen?"  said  the  English  Minister  approaching — 
"Mr.  Maltravers." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  half  smiled  and  half  blushed,  as  she 
looked  up,  and  saw  bent  admiringly  upon  her  the  proud  and 
earnest  countenance  she  had  remarked. 

The  introduction  was  made — a  few  monosyllables  exchanged. 
The  French  diplomatist  rose  and  walked  away  with  the  English 
one.     Maltravers  succeeded  to  the  vacant  chair. 

"  Have  you  been  long  abroad  ?  "  asked  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"  Only  four  years  ;  yet  long  enough  to  ask  whether  I  should 
not  be  most  abroad  in  England." 

"  You  have  been  in  the  East — I  envy  you.  And  Greece,  and 
Egypt, — all  the  associations  !     You  have  travelled  back  into  the 


64  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Past  ,•  you  have  escaped,  as  Madame  d'Epinay  wished,  out  of 
civilization  and  into  romance." 

"Yet  Madame  d'Epinay  passed  her  own  life  in  making  pretty 
romances  out  of  a  very  agreeable  civilization,"  said  Maltravers, 
smiling. 

"You  know  her  memoirs,  then,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour, 
slightly  coloring.  "  In  the  current  of  a  more  exciting  literature, 
few  have  had  time  for  the  second-rate  writings  of  a  past  century." 

"  Are  not  those  second-rate  performances  often  themostcharm- 
ing,"  said  Maltravers,  "when  the  mediocrity  of  the  intellect 
seems  almost  as  if  it  were  the  effect  of  a  touching,  though  too 
feeble,  delicacy  of  sentiment  ?  Madame  d'Epinay's  memoirs 
are  of  this  character.  She  was  not  a  virtuous  woman — but  she 
felt  virtue  and  loved  it ;  she  was  not  a  woman  of  genius — but 
she  was  tremblingly  alive  to  all  the  influences  of  genius.  Some 
people  seem  born  with  the  temperament  and  the  tastes  of  genius 
without  its  creative  power ;  they  have  its  nervous  system,  but 
something  is  wanting  in  the  intellectual.  They  feel  acutely,  yet 
express  tamely.  These  persons  always  have  in  their  character 
an  unspeakable  kind  of  pathos — a  court  civilization  produces 
many  of  them — and  the  French  memoirs  of  the  last  century  are 
particularly  fraught  with  such  examples.  This  is  interesting — 
the  struggle  of  sensitive  minds  against  the  lethargy  of  a  society, 
dull  yet  brilliant,  that  glares  them,  as  it  were,  to  sleep.  It  comes 
home  to  us  !  for,"  added  Maltravers,  with  a  slight  change  of 
voice,  "howmanyof  usfancy  wesee  our  own  image  in  the  mirror!" 

And  where  was  the  German  baron  ? — flirting  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  And  the  English  lord  ? — dropping  monosyllables 
to  dandies  by  the  doorway.  And  the  minor  satellites  ? — dancing, 
whispering,  making  love,  or  sipping  lemonade.  And  Madame 
de  Ventadour  was  alone  with  the  young  stranger  in  a  crowd  of 
eight  hundred  persons;  and  their  lips  spoke  of  sentiment,  and 
their  eyes  involuntarily  applied  it. 

While  they  were  thus  conversing,  Maltravers  was  suddenly 
startled  by  hearing  close  behind  him  a  sharp  significant  voice, 
saying  in  French,  "Hein,  hein  !  I've  my  suspicions — I've  my 
suspicions." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  looked  round  with  a  smile.  "  It  is  only 
my  husband,"  she  said,  quietly  ;  "let  me  introduce  him  to  you." 

Maltravers  rose  and  bowed  to  a  little  thin  man,  most  elabo- 
rately dressed,  with  an  immense  pair  of  spectacles  upon  a  long, 
sharp  nose. 

"Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir!"  said  Monsieur 
de  Ventadour.     "Have  you  been  long  in  Naples?  ....  Beau- 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  65 

tiful  weather — won't  last  long — hein,  hein,  I've  my  suspicions! 
No  news  as  to  your  parliament — be  dissolved  soon  !  Bad  opera 
in  London  this  year ;  hein,  hein — I've  my  suspicions." 

This  rapid  monologue  was  delivered  with  appropriate  gesture. 
Each  new  sentence  Mons.  de  Ventadour  began  with  a  sort  of 
bow,  and  when  it  dropped  in  the  almost  invariable  conclusion 
affirmative  of  his  shrewdness  and  incredulity,  he  made  a  mystical 
sign  with  his  forefinger  by  passing  it  upward  in  a  parallel  line 
with  his  nose,  which  at  the  same  time  performed  its  own  part 
in  the  ceremony  by  three  convulsive  twitches,  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  bridge  to  its  base. 

Maltravers  looked  with  mute  surprise  upon  the  connubial  part- 
ner of  the  graceful  creature  by  his  side,  and  Mons.  de  Venta- 
dour, who  had  said  as  much  as  he  thought  necessary,  wound  up 
his  eloquence  by  expressing  the  rapture  it  would  give  him  to  see 
Mons.  Maltravers  at  his  hotel,  "rhen,  turning  to  his  wife,  he 
began  assuring  her  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  the  expedi- 
ency of  departure.  Maltravers  glided  away,  and  as  he  regained 
the  door,  was  seized  by  our  old  friend,  Lumley  Ferrers.  "  Come, 
my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  latter.  *'  I've  been  waiting  for  you 
this  half-hour.  Allans.  But,  perhaps,  as  I  am  dying  to  go  to 
bed,  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  stay  to  supper.  Some 
people  have  no  regard  for  other  people's  feelings." 

"  No,  Ferrers,  I'm  at  your  service  ";  and  the  young  men  des- 
cended the  stairs  and  passed  along  the  Chiaja  towards  their  hotel. 
As  they  gained  the  broad  and  open  space  on  which  it  stood, 
with  the  lovely  sea  before  them,  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  the 
curving  shore,  Maltravers,  who  had  hitherto  listened  in  silence 
to  the  volubility  of  his  companion,  paused  abruptly. 

"  Look  at  that  sea,  Ferrers.  .  .  .  What  a  scene !  What  de- 
licious air  !  How  soft  this  moonlight  !  Can  you  not  fancy  the 
old  Greek  adventurers,  when  they  first  colonized  this  divine 
Parthenope — the  darling  of  the  ocean — gazing  along  those  waves, 
and  pining  no  more  for  Greece  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  fancy  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  Ferrers. ..."  And, 
depend  upon  it,  the  said  gentlemen,  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  un- 
less they  were  on  some  piratical  excursion — for  they  were  accursed 
ruffians,  those  old  Greek  colonists — were  fast  asleep  in  their 
beds." 

"  Did  you  ever  write  poetry,  Ferrers  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  ;  all  clever  men  have  written  poetry  once  in  their 
lives — small-pox  and  poetry — they  are  our  two  juvenile  diseases.'* 

"  And  did  you  qwqx  feel  poetry  ? " 

"Feel  it!''  '      ^       ^ 


66  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  put  the  moon  into  your  verses,  did  you  first  feel 
it  shining  into  your  heart  ?" 

"  My  dear  Maltravers,  if  I  put  the  moon  into  my  verses,  in  all 
probability  it  was  to  rhyme  to  noon.  *  The  night  was  at  her 
noon ' — is  a  capital  ending  for  the  first  hexameter — and  the 
moon  is  booked  for  the  next  stage.     Come  in." 

'*  No,  I  shall  stay  out." 

"Don't  be  nonsensical." 

"  By  moonlight,  there  is  no  nonsense  like  common  sense." 

"  What !  we — who  have  climbed  the  Pyramids,  and  sailed  up 
the  Nile,  and  seen  magic  at  Cairo,  and  been  nearly  murdered, 
bagged,  and  Bosphorized  at  Constantinople,  is  it  for  us,  who  have 
gone  through  so  many  adventures,  looked  on  so  many  scenes, 
and  crowded  into  four  years  events  that  would  have  satisfied  the 
ap])etite  of  a  cormorant  in  romance,  if  it  had  lived  to  the  age  of 
a  phoenix  ;  is  it  for  us  to  be  doing  the  pretty  and  sighing  lo  the 
moon,  like  a  black-haired  apprentice  without  a  neckcloth,  on 
board  of  the  Margate  hoy  ?  Nonsense,  I  say — we  have  lived 
too  much  nottohavelivedawayour  green-sickness  of  sentiment." 

**  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Ferrers,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling. 
"But  I  can  still  enjoy  a  beautiful  night." 

"  Oh,  if  you  like  flies  in  jour  soup,  as  the  man  said  to  his  guest, 
when  he  carefully  replaced  those  entomological  blackamoors  in 
the  tureen,  after  helping  himself — if  you  like  flies  in  your  soup, 
well  and  good — buona  twite." 

Ferrers  certainly  was  right  in  his  theory,  that  when  we  have 
known  real  adventures,  we  grow  less  morbidly  sentimental.  Life 
is  a  sleep  in  which  we  dream  most  at  the  commencement  and 
the  close — the  middle  part  absorbs  us  too  much  for  dreams. 
But  still,  as  Maltravers  said,  we  can  enjoy  a  fine  night,  especially 
on  the  shores  of  Naples. 

Maltravers  paced  musingly  to  and  fro  for  some  time.  His 
heart  was  softened — old  rhymes  rang  in  his  ear — old  memories 
passed  through  his  brain.  But  the  sweet,  dark  eyes  of  Madame 
de  Ventadour  shone  forth  through  every  shadow  of  the  past. 
Delicious  intoxication — the  draught  of  the  rose-colored  phial — 
which  is  fancy,  but  seems  love  ! 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  67 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  Then  'gan  the  Palmer  thus — '  Most  wretched  man 
That  to  affections  dost  the  bridle  lend  ; 
In  their  beginning  they  are  wtak  and  wan, 
But  soon,  through  suffrance,  growe  to  fearfull  end  ; 
While  they  are  weak,  betimes  with  them  contend.'  " 

Spenser. 

Maltravers  went  frequently  to  the  house  of  Madame  de 
Ventadour — it  was  open  twice  a  week  to  the  world,  and  thrice  a 
week  to  friends.  Maltravers  was  soon  of  the  latter  class.  Mad- 
ame de  Ventadour  had  been  in  England  in  her  childhood,  for  her 
parents  had  been  ^migr^s.  She  spoke  English  well  and  fluently, 
and  this  pleased  Maltravers  ;  for  though  the  French  language 
was  sufficiently  familiar  to  him,  he  was  like  most  who  are  more 
vain  of  the  mind  than  the  person,  and  proudly  averse  to  hazard- 
ing his  best  thoughts  in  the  domino  of  a  foreign  language.  We 
don't  care  how  faulty  the  accent,  or  how  incorrect  the  idiom,  in 
which  we  talk  nothings  ;  but  if  we  utter  any  of  the  poetry  within 
us,  we  shudder  at  the  risk  of  the  most  trifling  solecism. 

This  was  especially  the  case  with  Maltravers ;  for,  besides 
being  now  somewhat  ripened  from  his  careless  boyhood  into  a 
proud  and  fastidious  man,  he  had  a  natural  love  for  the  Becom- 
ing. This  love  was  unconsciously  visible  in  trifles ;  it  is  the 
natural  parent  of  Good  Taste.  And  it  was  indeed  an  inborn 
good  taste  which  redeemed  Ernest's  natural  carelessness  in  those 
personal  matters,  in  which  young  men  usually  take  a  pride.  An 
habitual  and  soldier-like  neatness,  and  a  love  of  order  and  sym- 
metry, stood  with  him  in  the  stead  of  elaborate  attention  to  equi- 
page and  dress. 

Maltravers  had  not  thought  twice  in  his  life  whether  he  was 
handsome  or  not  ;  and,  like  most  men  who  have  a  knowledge  of 
the  gentler  sex,  he  knew  that  beauty  had  little  to  do  with  engag- 
ing the  love  of  women.  The  air,  the  manner,  the  tone,  the  con- 
versation, the  something  that  interests,  and  the  something  to  be 
proud  of — these  are  the  attributes  of  the  man  made  to  be  loved. 
And  the  Beauty-man  is,  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  little  more  than  the 
oracle  of  his  aunts,  and  the  ''^  sitch  a  love  "  of  the  housemaids  ! 

To  return  from  this  digression,  Maltravers  was  glad  that  he 
could  talk  in  his  own  language  to  Madame  de  Ventadour,  and 
the  conversation  between  them  generally  began  in  French  and 
glided  away  into  English.  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  eloquent, 
and  so  was  Maltravers  ;  yet  a  more  complete  contrast  in  their 
mental  views  and  conversational  peculiarities  can  scarcely  be  con? 


68  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

ceived.  Madame  de  Ventadour  viewed  everything  as  a  woman 
of  the  world  ;  she  was  brilliant,  thoughtful,  and  not  without 
delicacy  and  tenderness  of  sentiment ;  still  all  was  cast  in  a 
worldly  mould.  She  had  been  formed  by  the  influences  of  society, 
and  her  mind  betrayed  its  education.  At  once  witty  and  mel- 
ancholy (no  uncommon  union),  she  was  a  disciple  of  the  sad  but 
caustic  philosophy  produced  by  Satiety.  In  the  life  she  led, 
neither  her  heart  nor  her  head  was  engaged  ;  the  faculties  of 
both  were  irritated,  not  satisfied  or  employed.  She  felt  some- 
what too  sensitively  the  hollowness  of  the  great  world,  and  had 
a  low  opinion  of  Human  Nature.  In  fact,  she  was  a  woman  of 
the  French  Memoirs — one  of  those  charming  and  spirituelles 
Aspasias  of  the  Boudoir,  who  inltrest  us  by  their  subtlety,  tact, 
and  grace,  their  exquisite  tone  of  refinement,  and  are  redeemed 
from  the  superficial  and  frivolous,  partly  by  a  consummate  knowl- 
edge of  the  social  system  in  which  they  move,  and  partly  by  a 
half-concealed  and  touching  discontent  of  the  trifles  on  which 
their  talents  and  affections  are  wasted.  These  are  the  women 
who,  after  a  youth  of  false  pleasure,  often  end  by  an  old  age  of 
false  devotion.  They  are  a  class  peculiar  to  those  ranks  and 
countries  in  which  shines  and  saddens  that  gay  and  unhappy 
thing — a  woman  without  a  home  ! 

Now  this  was  a  specimen  of  life — this  Valerie  de  Ventadour — 
that  Maltravers  had  never  yet  contemplated,  and  Maltravers 
was  perhaps  equally  new  to  the  Frenchwoman.  They  were  de- 
lighted with  each  other's  society,  although  it  so  happened  that 
they  never  agreed. 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rode  on  horseback,  and  Maltravers 
was  one  of  her  usual  companions.  And  oh,  the  beautifulland- 
scapes  through  which  their  daily  excursions  lay  ! 

Maltravers  was  an  admirable  scholar.  The  stores  of  the  im- 
mortal dead  were  as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own  language.  The 
poetry,  the  philosophy,  the  manner  of  thought  and  habits  of  life, 
of  the  graceful  Greek  and  the  luxurious  Roman — were  a  part 
of  knowledge  that  constituted  a  common  and  household  portion 
of  his  own  associations  and  peculiarities  of  thought.  He  had 
saturated  his  intellect  with  the  Pactolus  of  old — and  the  grains 
of  gold  came  down  from  the  classic  Tmolus  with  every  tide. 
This  knowledge  of  the  dead,  often  so  useless,  has  an  inexpressible 
charm  when  it  is  applied  to  the  places  where  the  Dead  lived. 
We  care  nothing  about  the  ancients  on  Highgate  Hill — but  at 
Baiae,  Pompeii,  by  the  Virgilian  Hades,  the  ancients  are  society 
with  vhich  we  thirst  to  be  familiar.  'J'o  the  animated  and  curious 
Fren-^hworaan  what  a  cicerone  was  Ernest  Maltravers  !     How 


ERNESt    MALTkAVERS.  69 

eagerly  she  listened  to  accounts  of  a  life  more  elegant  than  that 
of  Paris  ! — of  a  civilization  which  the  world  never  can  know 
again  !  So  much  the  better  ; — for  it  was  rotten  at  the  core, 
though  most  brilliant  in  the  complexion.  Those  cold  names  and 
unsubstantial  shadows  which  Madame  de  Ventadour  had  been 
accustomed  to  yawn  over  in  skeleton  histories,  took  from  the 
eloquence  of  Maltravers  the  breath  of  life — they  glowed  and 
moved — they  feasted  and  made  love— were  wise  and  foolish, merry 
and  sad,  like  living  things.  On  the  other  hand,  Maltravers  learned 
a  thousand  new  secrets  of  the  existing  and  actual  world  from  the 
lips  of  the  accomplished  and  observant  Valerie.  What  a  new 
step  in  the  philosophy  of  life  does  a  young  man  of  genius  make, 
when  he  first  compares  his  theories  and  experience  with  the  in- 
tellect of  a  clever  woman  of  the  world  !  Perhaps  it  does  not 
elevate  him,  but  how  it  enlightens  and  refines  ! — what  number- 
less minute  yet  important  mysteries  in  human  character  and 
practical  wisdom  does  he  drink  unconsciously  from  the  spark- 
ling persiflage  of  such  a  companion  !  Our  education  is  hardly 
ever  complete  without  it. 

"And  so  you  think  these  stately  Romans,  were  not,  after  all, 
so  dissimilar  to  ourselves  ?  "  said  Valerie,  one  day,  as  they  looked 
over  the  same  earth  and  ocean  along  which  had  roved  the  eyes 
of  the  voluptuous  but  august  Lucullus. 

"  In  the  last  days  of  their  republic,  a  coup-d'oeil  of  their  social 
date  might  convey  to  us  a  general  notion  of  our  own.  Their 
system,  like  ours — a  vast  aristocracy  heaved  and  agitated,  but 
kept  ambitious  and  intellectual,  by  the  great  democratic  ocean 
which  roared  below  and  around  it.  An  immense  distinction  be- 
tween rich  and  poor — a  nobility  sumptuous,  wealthy,  cultivated, 
yet  scarcely  elegant  or  refined;  a  people  with  mighty  aspirations 
for  more  perfect  liberty,  but  always  liable,  in  a  crisis,  to  be  in- 
fluenced and  subdued  by  a  deep-rooted  veneration  for  the  very 
aristocracy  against  which  they  struggled ;  a  ready  opening  through 
all  the  walls  of  custom  and  privilege,  for  every  description  of 
talent  and  ambition;  but  so  strong  and  universal  a  respect  for 
wealth,  that  the  finest  spirit  grew  avaricious,  griping,  and  cor- 
rupt, almost  unconsciously;  and  the  man  who  rose  from  the  peo- 
ple did  not  scruple  to  enrich  himself  out  of  the  abuses  he  affect- 
ed to  lament;  and  the  inan  who  would  have  died  for  his  country 
could  not  help  thrusting  his  hands  into  her  pockets.  Cassius, 
the  stubborn  and  thoughtful  patriot,  with  his  heart  of  iron,  had, 
you  remember,  an  itching  palm.  Yet,  what  a  blow  to  all  the 
hopes  and  dreams  of  a  world  was  the  overthrow  of  the  free  party 
after  the  death  of  Caesar !     What  generations  of  freemen  fell  at 


70  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Philippi  !  In  England,  perhaps,  we  may  have  ultimately  the 
same  struggle;  in  France,  too  (perhaps  alarger  stage,  with  far  more 
inflammable  actors),  we  already  perceive  the  same  war  of  elements 
which  shook  Rome  to  her  centre,  which  finally  replaced  the  gen- 
erous Julius  with  the  hypocritical  Augustus,  which  destroyed 
the  colossal  patricians  to  make  way  for  the  glittering  dwarfs  of 
a  court,  and  cheated  a  people  out  of  the  substance  with  the  shadow 
of  liberty.  How  it  may  end  in  the  modern  world,  who  shall  say? 
But  while  a  nation  has  already  a  fair  degree  of  constitutional 
freedom,  I  believe  no  struggle  so  perilous  and  awful  as  that  be- 
tween the  aristocratic  and  the  democratic  principle.  A  people 
against  a  despot — that  contest  requires  no  prophet;  but  the 
change  from  an  aristocratic  to  a  democratic  commonwealth  is 
indeed  the  wide,  unbounded  prospect  upon  which  rest  shadows, 
clouds,  and  darkness.  If  it  fail — for  centuries  is  the  dial  hand 
of  Time  put  back;  if  it  succeed — *' 

Maltravers  paused. 

"  And  if  it  succeed  ? "  said  Valerie. 

"  Why,  then,  man  will  have  colonized  Utopia  !  "  replied  Mal- 
travers. 

"  Rut  at  least,  in  modern  Europe,"  he  continued,  "  there  will 
be  fair  room  for  the  experiment.  For  we  have  not  that  curse  of 
slavery  which,  more  than  all  else,  vitiated  every  system  of  the 
ancients,  and  kept  the  rich  and  the  poor  alternately  at  war;  and 
we  have  a  press,  which  is  not  only  the  safety-valve  of  the  pas- 
sions of  every  party,  but  the  great  note-book  of  the  experiments 
of  every  hour — the  homely,  the  invaluable  ledger  of  losses  and 
of  gains.  No;  the  people  who  keep  that  tablet  well,  never  can 
be  bankrupt.  And  the  society  of  those  old  Romans;  their  daily 
passions — occupations — humors! — why,  the  satire  of  Horace  is 
the  glass  of  our  own  follies  !  We  may  fancy  his  easy  pages  writ- 
ten in  theChausseed'Antin,  or  May-fair;  butthere  was  one  thing 
that  will  ever  keep  the  ancient  world  dissimilar  from  the  modern." 

"  And  what  is  tha*^  ? " 

"The  ancients  knew  not  that  delicacy  in  the  affections  which 
characterizes  the  descendants  of  the  Goths,"  said  Maltravers, 
and  his  voice  slightly  trembled;  "they  gave  up  to  the  monopoly 
of  the  senses  what  ought  to  have  had  an  equal  share  in  the 
reason  and  the  imagination.  Their  love  was  a  beautiful  and 
wanton  butterfly;  but  not  the  butterfly  which  is  the  emblem  of 
the  soul." 

Valerie  sighed.  She  looked  timidly  into  the  face  of  the  young 
philosopher,  but  his  eyes  were  averted. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "  we  pass  our  lives 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  7 1 

more  l^appily  without  love  than  with  it.  And  in  our  modern 
social  system  "  (she  continued  thoughtfully,  and  with  profound 
truth,  though  it  is  scarcely  the  conclusion  to  which  a  woman  often 
arrives),  I  think  we  have  pampered  Love  to  too  great  a  prepon- 
derance over  the  other  excitements  of  life.  As  children,  we  are 
taught  to  dream  of  it;  in  youth,  our  books,  our  conversation, 
our  plays  are  filled  with  it.  We  are  trained  to  consider  it  the 
essential  of  life;  and  yet,  the  moment  we  come  to  actual  expe- 
rience, the  moment  we  indulge  this  inculcated  and  stimulating 
craving,  nine  times  out  of  ten  we  find  ourselves  wretched  and 
outdone.  Ah,  believe  me,  Mr.  Maltravers,  this  is  not  a  world 
in  which  we  should  preach  up,  too  far,  the  philosophy  of 
love  ! " 

"And  does  Madame  de  Ventadour  speak  from  experience?  " 
asked  Maltravers,  gazing  earnestly  upon  the  changing  countC' 
nance  of  his  companion. 

"No  ;  and  I  trust  that  I  never  may  !  "  said  Valerie,  with  great 
energy. 

Ernest's  lip  curled  slightly,  for  his  pride  was  touched, 

"I  could  give  up  many  dreams  of  the  future,"  said  he,  "  to 
hear  Madame  de  Ventadour  revoke  that  sentiment." 

"  We  have  outridden  our  companions,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said 
Valerie,  coldly,  and  she  reined  in  her  horse.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Fer- 
rers," she  continued,  as  Lumley  and  the  handsome  German 
baron  now  joined  her,  "you  are  too  gallant;  I  see  you  imply  a 
delicate  compliment  to  my  horsemanship,  when  you  wish  me  to 
believe  you  cannot  keep  up  with  me:  Mr.  Maltravers  is  not  so 
polite." 

"  Nay,"  returned  Ferrers,  who  rarely  threw  away  a  compliment 
without  a  satisfactory  return,  "Nay,  you  and  Maltravers  ap- 
peared lost  among  the  old  Romans;  and  our  friend  the  Earon 
took  the  opportunity  to  tell  me  of  all  the  ladies  who  adored  him." 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Ferrare,  que  vous  etes  maliii!'^  said  Schom- 
berg,  looking  very  much  confused. 

'^ Malin!  no;  I  spoke  from  no  envy:  /  never  was  adored, 
thank  Heaven  !     What  a  bore  it  must  be  !  " 

"I  congratulate  you  on  the  sympathy  between  yourself  and 
Ferrers,"  whispered  Maltravers  to  Valerie, 

Valerie  laughed;  but  during  the  rest  of  the  excursion  she  re- 
mained thoughtful  and  absent,  and  for  some  days  their  rides  were 
discontinued.     Madame  de  Ventadour  was  not  welL 


72  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   III. 


"  O  Love,  forsake  me  not; 
Mine  were  a  lone  dark  lot 
Bereft  of  thee." 

Hemans:  Genius  singing  to  Love. 

I  FEAR  that  as  yet  Ernest  Maltravers  had  gained  little  from 
Experience,  except  a  few  current  coins  of  worldly  wisdom  (and 
not  very  valuable  those!)  while  he  had  lost  much  of  that  nobler 
wealth  with  which  youthful  enthusiasm  sets  out  on  the  journey 
of  life.  Experience  is  an  open  giver,  but  a  stealthy  thief.  There 
is,  however,  this  to  be  said  in  her  favor,  that  we  retain  her  gifts; 
and  if  ever  we  demand  restitution  in  earnest,  'tis  ten  to  one  but 
what  we  recover  her  thefts.  Maltravers  had  lived  in  lands  where 
public  opinion  is  neither  strong  in  its  influence,  nor  rigid  in  its 
canons;  and  that  does  not  make  a  man  better.  Moreover,  thrown 
headlong  amidst  the  temptations  that  make  the  first  ordeal  of 
youth,  with  ardent  passions  and  intellectual  superiority,  he  had 
been  led  by  the  one  into  many  errors,  from  the  consequences  of 
which  the  other  had  delivered  him;  the  necessity  of  roughing  it 
through  the  world — of  resisting  fraud  to-day,  and  violence  to- 
morrow,— had  hardened  over  the  surface  of  his  heart,  though  at 
bottom  the  springs  were  still  fresh  and  living.  He  had  lost  much 
of  his  chivalrous  veneration  for  women,  for  he  had  seen  them 
less  often  deceived  than  deceiving.  Again,  too,  the  last  few 
years  had  been  spent  without  any  high  aims  or  fixed  pursuits. 
IVIaltravers  had  been  living  on  the  capital  of  his  faculties  and 
affections  in  a  wasteful,  speculating  spirit.  It  is  a  bad  thing  for 
a  clever  and  ardent  man  not  to  have  from  the  onset  some  para- 
mount object  of  life. 

All  this  considered,  we  can  scarcely  wonder  that  Maltravers 
should  have  fallen  into  an  involuntary  system  of  pursuing  his 
own  amusements  and  pursuits,  without  much  forethought  of  the 
harm  or  the  good  they  were  to  do  to  others  or  himself.  The 
moment  we  lose  forethought,  we  lose  sight  of  a  duty;  and  though 
it  seems  like  a  paradox,  we  can  seldom  be  careless  without  being 
selfish. 

In  seeking  the  society  of  Madame  de  Ventadour,  Maltravers 
obeyed  but  the  mechanical  impulse  that  leads  the  idler  towards 
the  companionship  which  most  pleases  his  leisure.  He  was  in- 
terested and  excited ;  and  Valerie's  manners,  which  to-day 
flattered,  and  to-morrow  piqued  him,  enlisted  his  vanity  and  pride 
on  the  side  of  his  fancy.     But  although  Monsieur  de  Ventadour, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  73 

a  frivolous  and  profligate  Frenchman,  seemed  utterly  indifferent 
as  to  what  his  wife  chose  to  do — and  in  the  society  in  which 
Valerie  lived,  almost  every  lady  had  her  cavalier, — yet  Maltravers 
would  have  started  with  incredulity  or  dismay  had  any  one 
accused  him  of  a  systematic  design  on  her  affections.  But  he 
was  living  with  the  world,  and  the  world  affected  him  as  it  almost 
always  does  every  one  else.  Still  he  had  at  times,  in  his  heart, 
the  feeling  that  he  was  not  fulfilling  his  proper  destiny  and  duties; 
and  when  he  stole  from  the  brilliant  resorts  of  an  unworthy  and 
heartless  pleasure,  he  was  ever  and  anon  haunted  by  his  old 
familiar  aspirations  fortheBeautiful,  the  Virtuous  and  the  Great. 
However,  hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions  ;  and  so,  in  the 
meanwhile,  Ernest  Maltravers  surrendered  himself  to  the  de- 
licious presence  of  Valerie  de  Ventadour. 

One  evening,  Maltravers,  Ferrers,  the  French  minister,  a  pretty 

Italian,  and  the  Princess  di ,  made  the  whole  party  collected 

at  Madame  de  Ventadour's.  The  conversation  fell  upon  one  of 
the  tales  of  scandal  relative  to  English  persons,  so  common  on 
the  continent. 

"Is  it  true.  Monsieur,"  said  the  French  minister,  gravely,  to 
Lumley,  "that  your  countrymen  are  much  more  immoral  than 
other  people?  It  is  very  strange,  that  in  every  town  I  enter, 
there  is  always  some  story  in  which  les  Anglais  are  the  heroes. 
I  hear  nothing  of  French  scandal — nothing  of  Italian — toujours 
les  Anglais." 

"Because  we  are  shocked  at  these  things,  and  make  a  noise 
about  them,  while  you  take  them  quietly.  Vice  is  our  episode — 
your  epic."  1,; 

"I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  the  Frenchman,  with  affected  seri- 
ousness. "  If  we  cheat  at  play,  or  flirt  with  a  fair  lady,  we  do 
it  with  decorum,  and  our  neighbors  think  it  no  business  of  theirs. 
But  you  treat  every  frailty  you  find  in  your  countrymen  as  a 
public  concern,  to  be  discussed  and  talked  over,  and  exclaimed 
against,  and  told  to  all  the  world." 

"I  like  the  system  of  scandal,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour, 
abruptly,  "  say  what  you  will ;  the  policy  of  fear  keeps  many  of 
us  virtuous.  Sin  might  not  be  odious,  if  we  did  not  tremble 
at  the  consequence  even  of  appearances." 

"Hein,  hein,"  grunted  Monsieur  de  Ventadour,  shuffling  into 
the  room.  "  How  are  you  ? — how  are  you  ?  Charmed  to  see 
you.  Dull  night — I  suspect  we  shall  have  rain.  Hein,  hein. 
Aha,  Monsieur  Ferrers,  comment  ga  va-t-il?  will  you  give  me  my 
revenge  at  <fcarU?  I  have  my  suspicions  that  I  am  in  luck  to- 
night.    Hein,  hein." 


74  ERNEST    MALTRAVEKS. 

*'  £cart^.' — well,  with  pleasure,"  said  Ferrers. 

Ferrers  played  well. 

The  conversation  ended  in  a  moment.  The  little  party  gath- 
ered round  the  table — all,  except  Valerie  and  Maltravers.  The 
chairs  that  were  vacated  left  a  kind  of  breach  between  them  ; 
but  still  they  were  next  to  each  other,  and  they  felt  embarrassed, 
for  they  felt  alone. 

"  Do  you  never  play  ?  "  asked  Madame  de  Ventadour,  after  a 
pause. 

*'  I  have  played,"  said  Maltravers,  "  and  I  know  the  temptation. 
I  dare  not  play  now.  I  love  the  excitement,  but  I  have  been 
humbled  at  the  debasement;  it  is  a  moral  drunkenness  that  is 
worse  than  the  physical." 

"You  speak  warmly." 

"  Because  I  feel  keenly.  I  once  won  of  a  man  I  respected, 
who  was  poor.  His  agony  was  a  dreadful  lesson  to  me.  I  went 
home,  and  was  terrified  to  think  that  I  had  felt  so  much  pleasure 
in  the  pain  of  another.  I  have  never  played  since  that 
night." 

"So  young  and  so  resolute  '."said  Valerie, with  admiration  in 
her  voice  and  eyes  ;  "you  are  a  strange  person.  Others  would 
have  been  cured  by  losing,  you  were  cured  by  winning.  It  is 
a  fine  thing  to  have  principle  at  your  age,  Mr.  Maltravers." 

"I  fear  it  was  rather  pride  than  principle,"  said  Maltravers. 
"Error  is  sometimes  sweet;  but  there  is  no  anguish  like  an  error 
of  which  we  feel  ashamed.     I  cannot  submit  to  blush  for  myself." 

"  Ah  ! "  muttered  Valerie  ;  "  this  is  the  echo  of  my  own  heart !" 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Maltravers  paused  a  moment, 
and  followed  her.  Perhaps  he  half  thought  there  was  an  invita- 
tion in  the  movement. 

There  lay  before  them  the  still  street,  with  its  feeble  and 
unfrequent  lights ;  beyond,  a  few  stars  struggling  through  an 
atmosphere  unusually  clouded,  brought  the  murmuring  ocean 
partially  into  sight.  Valerie  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  the 
draperies  of  the  window  veiled  her  from  all  the  guests,  save  Mal- 
travers ;  and  between  her  and  himself  was  a  large  marble  vase 
filled  with  flowers  ;  and  by  that  uncertain  light  Valerie's  brilliant 
cheek  looked  pale,  and  soft,  and  thoughtful.  Maltravers  never 
before  felt  so  much  in  love  with  the  beautiful  Frenchwoman. 

"Ah,  madame  ! "  said  he,  softly ;  "there  is  one  error,  if  it  be 
so,  that  never  can  cost  me  shame." 

"Indeed  !  "  said  Valerie,  with  an  unaffected  start,  for  she  was 
not  aware  he  was  so  near  her.  As  .she  spoke  she  began  pluck- 
ing (it  is  a  common  woman's  trick)  the  flowers  from  the  vase 


ERNEST    MAETRAVERS,  75 

between  her  and  Ernest.  That  small,  delicate,  almost  trans- 
parent hand  ! — Maltravers  gazed  upon  the  hand,  then  on  the 
countenance,  then  on  the  hand  again.  The  scene  swam,  before 
him,  and,  involuntarily  and  as  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  the  next 
moment  that  hand  was  in  his  own. 

"Pardon  me — pardon  me,"  said  he,  falteringly ;  "but  that 
error  is  in  the  feelings  that  I  know  for  you." 

Valerie  lifted  on  him  her  large  and  radiant  eyes,  and  made 
no  answer. 

Maltravers  went  on.  "Chide  me,  scorn  me,  hate  me  if  you 
will.     Valerie,  I  love  you  !  " 

Valerie  drew  away  her  hand,  and  still  remained  silent. 

"Speak  to  me,"  said  Ernest,  leaning  forward;  "one  word,  I 
implore  you — speak  to  me  !  " 

He  paused, — still  no  reply ;  he  listened  breathlessly — he  heard 
her  sob.  Yes  ;  that  proud,  that  wise,  that  lofty  woman  of  the 
world,  in  that  moment,  was  as  weak  as  the  simplest  girl  that  ever 
listened  to  a  lover.  But  how  different  the  feelings  that  made  her 
weak  ? — what  soft  and  what  stern  emotions  were  blent  together! 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  she  said,  recovering  her  voice,  though  it 
sounded  hollow,  yet  almost  unnaturally  firm  and  clear — "the 
die  is  cast,  and  I  have  lost  forever  the  friend  for  whose  happi- 
ness I  cannot  live,  but  for  whose  welfare  I  would  have  died  ;  I 
should  have  foreseen  this,  but  I  was  blind.  No  more — no  more  ; 
see  me  to-morrow,  and  leave  me  now  ! " 

"But,  Valerie—" 

"  Ernest  Maltravers,"  said  she,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on  his 
own ;  "  there  is  no  anguish  like  an  error  of  which  we  feel  ashamed!' ' 

Before  he  could  reply  to  this  citation  from  his  own  aphorism, 
Valerie  had  glided  away ;  and  was  already  seated  at  the  card- 
table,  by  the  side  of  the  Italian  princess. 

Maltravers  also  joined  the  group.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Madame 
de  Ventadour,  but  her  face  was  calm — not  a  trace  of  emotion 
was  discernible.  Her  voice,  her  smile,  her  charming  and  courtly 
manner,  all  were  as  when  he  first  beheld  her. 

"  These  women — what  hypocrites  they  are  ! "  muttered  Mal- 
travers, to  himself ;  and  his  lip  writhed  into  a  sneer,  which 
had  of  late  often  forced  away  the  serene  and  gracious  expres- 
sion of  his  earlier  years,  ere  he  knew  what  it  was  to  despise. 
But  Maltravers  mistook  the  woman  he  had  dared  to  scorn. 

He  soon  withdrew  from  the  palazzo,  and  sought  his  hotel. 
There,  while  yet  musing  in  his  dressing-room,  he  was  joined 
by  Ferrers.  The  time  had  passed  when  Ferrers  had  exercised 
an  influence  over  Maltravers :  the  boy  had  grown  up  to  be  the 


76  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

equal  of  the  man,  in  the  exercise  of  that  two-edged  sword — the 
reason.  And  Maltravers  now  felt,  unalloyed,  the  calm  conscious- 
ness of  his  superior  genius.  He  could  not  confide  to  Ferrers 
what  had  passed  between  him  and  Valerie.  Lumley  was  too 
hard  for  a  confidant  in  matters  where  the  heart  was  at  all  con- 
cerned. In  fact,  in  high  spirits,  and  in  the  midst  of  frivolous 
adventures,  Ferrers  was  charming.  But  in  sadness,  or  in  the 
moments  of  deep  feeling,  Ferrers  was  one  whom  you  would  wish 
out  of  the  way. 

"  You  are  sullen  to-night,  mon  cher"  said  Lumley,  yawning  ; 
"I  suppose  you  want  to  go  to  bed — some  persons  are  so  ill-bred, 
so  selfish,  they  never  think  of  their  friends.  Nobody  asks  me 
wliat  I  won  at  icartL  Don't  be  late  to-morrow — I  hate  break- 
fasting alone,  and/  am  never  later  than  a  quarter  before  nine — 
I  hate  egotistical,  ill-mannered  people.     Good-night." 

With  this,  Ferrers  sought  his  own  room  ;  there,  as  he  slowly 
undressed,  he  thus  soliloquized  :  "I  think  I  have  put  this  man 
to  all  the  use  I  can  make  of  him.  We  don't  pull  well  together 
any  longer;  perhaps  I  myself  am  a  little  tired  of  this  sort  of  life. 
That  is  not  right.  I  shall  grow  ambitious  by  and  by ;  but  I 
think  it  is  a  bad  calculation  not  to  make  the  most  of  youth.  At 
four  or  five-and-thirty  it  will  be  time  enough  to  consider  what 
one  ought  to  be  at  fifty." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation  that  does  goad  us  on 
To  sin,  in  loving  virtue." — Measure  for  Measure. 

"See  her  to-morrow  ! — that  morrow  is  come  ! "  thought  Mal- 
travers, as  he  rose  the  next  day  from  a  sleepless  couch.  Ere 
yet  he  had  obeyed  the  impatient  summons  of  Ferrers,  who  had 
thrice  sent  to  say  that  '^  he  never  kept  people  waiting,"  his 
servant  entered  with  a  packet  from  England,  that  had  just 
arrived  by  one  of  those  rare  couriers  who  sometimes  honor  that 
Naples,  which  might  be  so  lucrative  a  mart  to  English  com- 
merce, if  Neapolitan  kings  cared  for  trade,  or  English  senators 
for  "  foreign  politics."  Letters  from  stewards  and  bankers  were 
soon  got  through;  and  Maltravers  reserved  for  the  last  an  epistle 
from  Cleveland.  There  was  much  in  it  that  touched  him  home. 
After  some  dry  details  about  the  property  to  which  Maltravers 
had  now  succeeded,  and  some  trifling  comments  upon  trifling 
f^rparks  '\x\.  grnesf  §  fprm^r  letters,  Qlevelan^  \vent  on  thus ; 


ERNESt   MaLTRAVERS.  77 

"  I  confess,  my  dear  Ernest,  that  I  long  to  welcome  you 
back  to  England.  You  have  been  abroad  long  enough  to  see 
other  countries  ;  do  not  stay  long  enough  to  prefer  them  to 
your  own.  You  are  at  Naples,  too — I  tremble  for  you.  I  know 
well  that  delicious,  dreaming,  holiday-life  of  Italy,  so  sweet  to 
men  of  learning  and  imagination — so  sweet,  too,  to  youth — so 
sweet  to  pleasure  !  But,  Ernest,  do  you  not  feel  already  how  it 
enervates? — how  the  luxurious  far  «/V///(?  unfits  us  for  grave 
exertion  ?  Men  may  become  too  refined  and  too  fastidious  for 
useful  purposes  ;  and  nowhere  can  they  become  so  more  rapidly 
than  in  Italy.  My  dear  Ernest,  I  know  you  well ;  you  are  not 
made  to  sink  down  into  a  virtuoso,  with  a  cabinet  full  of  cameos 
and  a  head  full  of  pictures  ;  still  less  are  you  made  to  be  an 
indolent  cicesbeo  to  some  fair  Italian,  with  one  passion  and  two 
ideas  ;  and  yet  I  have  known  men  as  clever  as  you,  whom  thnt 
bewitching  Italy  has  sunk  into  one  or  other  of  these  insignificant 
beings.  Don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  you  have  plenty 
of  time  before  you.  You  have  no  such  thing.  At  your  age, 
and  with  your  fortune,  (I  wish  you  were  not  so  rich  !)  the  holi- 
day of  one  year  becomes  the  custom  of  the  next.  In  England, 
to  be  a  useful  or  a  distinguished  man,  you  must  labor.  Now, 
labor  itself  is  sweet  if  we  take  to  it  early.  We  are  a  hard  race, 
but  we  are  a  manly  one  ;  and  our  stage  is  the  most  exciting  in 
Europe  for  an  able  and  an  honest  ambition.  Perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  you  are  not  ambitious  now;  very  possibly — but  ambitious 
you  will  be;  and,  believe  me,  there  is  no  unhappier  wretch  than 
a  man  who  is  ambitious  but  disappointed^ — who  has  the  desire 
for  fame,  but  has  lost  the  power  to  achieve  it — who  longs  foi 
the  goal,  but  will  not,  and  cannot,  put  away  his  slippers  to  walk 
to  it.  What  I  most  fear  for  you  is  one  of  these  two  evils — an 
enrly  marriage  or  a  fatal  liaison  with  some  married  woman.  The 
first  evil  is  certainly  the  least,  but  iov  you  it  would  still  be  a 
great  one.  With  your  sensitive  roman'ce,  with  your  morbid 
cravings  for  the  ideal,  domestic  happiness  would  soon  grow  trite 
and  dull.  You  would  demand  new  excitement,  and  become  a 
restless  and  disgusted  man.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to  get  rid 
of  all  the  false  fever  of  life,  before  you  settle  down  to  everlasting 
ties.  You  do  not  yet  know  your  own  mind;  you  would  choose 
your  partner  from  some  visionary  caprice,  or  momentary  im•^ 
pulse,  and  not  from  the  deep  and  accurate  knowledge  of  those 
qualities  which  would  most  harmonize  with  your  own  character. 
People,  to  live  happily  with  each  other,  must^f/  in,  as  it  were — 
the  proud  be  mated  with  the  meek,  the  irritable  with  the  gentle, 
and  so  forth.     No,  my  dear  Maltravers,  do  not  think  of  mar- 


yS  tRNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

riage  yet  awhile;  and  if  there  is  any  danger  of  it,  come  over  to 
me  immediately.  But  if  I  warn  you  against  a  lawful  tie,  how 
much  more  against  an  illicit  one  ?  You  are  precisely  of  the 
age,  and  of  the  disposition,  which  render  the  temptation  so 
strong  and  so  deadly.  With  you  it  might  not  be  the  sin  of  an 
hour,  but  the  bondage  of  a  life.  I  know  your  chivalric  honor — 
your  tender  heart;  I  know  how  faithful  you  would  be  to  one 
who  had  sacrificed  for  you.  But  that  fidelity,  Maltravers,  to 
wliat  a  life  of  wasted  talents  and  energies  would  it  not  compel 
you  !  Putting  aside  for  the  moment  (for  that  needs  no  comment) 
the  question  of  the  grand  immorality — what  so  fatal  to  a  bold 
and  proud  temper,  as  to  be  at  war  with  society  at  the  first  en- 
trance into  life  ?  What  so  withering  to  manly  aims  and  purposes, 
as  the  giving  into  the  keeping  of  a  woman,  who  has  interest  in 
your  love,  and  interest  against  your  career  which  might  part  you 
at  once  from  her  side — the  control  of  your  future  destinies  ?  I 
could  say  more,  but  I  trust  what  I  have  said  is  superfluous;  if  so, 
pray  assure  me  of  it.  Depend  upon  this,  Ernest  Maltravers,  that 
if  you  do  not  fulfil  what  nature  intended  for  your  fate,  you  will 
be  a  morbid  misanthrope,  or  an  indolent  voluptuary — wretched 
and  listless  in  manhood,  repining  and  joyless  in  old  age.  But 
if  you  do  fulfil  your  fate,  you  must  enter  soon  into  your  appren- 
ticeship. Let  me  see  you  labor  and  aspire — no  matter  what 
in — what  to.     Work,  work,  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you  ! 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  your  old  country-house;  it  has  a  vener- 
able and  picturesque  look,  and  during  your  minority  they  have  let 
the  ivy  cover  three  sides  of  it.     Montaigne  might  have  lived  there. 

"  Adieu,  dearest  Ernest, 

"Your  anxious  and  affectionate  guardian, 

"Frederick  Cleveland." 

"  P.  S. — I  am  writing  a  book — it  shall  last  me  ten  years — it 
occupies  me,  but  does  not  fatigue.     Write  a  book  yourself." 

Maltravers  had  just  finished  this  letter  when  Ferrers  entered 
impatiently.  "Will  you  ride  out?"  said  he.  "I  have  sent  the 
breakfast  away;  I  saw  that  breakfast  was  a  vain  hope  to-day — 
indeed,  tny  appetite  is  gone." 

"Pshaw  !"  said  Maltravers. 

"Pshaw !  humph  !  for  my  part  I  like  well-bred  people." 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Cleveland." 

"  And  what  the  deuce  has  that  got  to  do  with  the  chocolate  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lumley,  you  are  insufferable;  you  think  of  nothing  but 
yourself,  and  self  with  you  means  nothing  that  is  not  animal." 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  believe  I  have  some  sense,"  replied  Ferrers, 
complacently.     "  I  know  the  philosophy  of  life.     All  unfledged 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  79 

bipeds  are  animals,  I  suppose.  If  Providence  had  made  me 
graminivorous,  I  should  have  eaten  grass;  if  ruminating,  I  should 
have  chewed  the  cud;  but  as  it  has  made  me  a  carnivorous,  culin- 
ary, and  cachinnatory  animal,  I  eat  a  cutlet,  scold  about  the  sauce, 
and  laugh  at  you;  and  this  is  what  you  call  being  selfish  !" 

It  was  late  at  noon  when  Maltravers  found  himself  at  the 
palazzo  of  Madame  de  Ventadour.  He  was  surprised,  but 
agreeably  so,  that  he  was  admitted,  for  the  first  time,  into  that 
private  sanctum  which  bears  the  hackneyed  title  of  boudoir, 
but  there  was  little  enough  of  the  fine  lady's  boudoir  in  the 
simple  morning-room  of  Madame  de  Ventadour,  It  was  a  lofty 
apartment,  stored  with  books,  and  furnished,  not  without  claim 
to  grace,  but  with  very  small  attention  to  luxury. 

Valerie  was  not  there;  and  Maltravers,  left  alone,  after  a  hasty 
glance  around  the  chamber,  leaned  abstractedly  against  the  wall, 
and  forgot,  alas  !  all  the  admonitions  of  Cleveland.  In  a  few 
moments  the  door  opened,  and  Valerie  entered.  She  was  un- 
usually pale,  and  Maltravers  thought  her  eyelids  betrayed  the 
traces  of  tears.     He  was  touched,  and  his  heart  smote  him, 

"  I  have  kept  you  waiting,  I  fear,"  said  Valerie,  motioning  him 
to  a  seat  at  a  little  distance  from  that  on  which  she  placed  her- 
self; "  but  you  will  forgive  me,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  smile. 
Then,  observing  he  was  about  to  speak,  she  went  on  rapidly, 
"  Hear  me,  Mr.  Maltravers — before  you  speak,  hear  me  !  You 
uttered  words  last  night  that  ought  never  to  have  been  addressed 
to  me.     You  professed  to — to  love  me." 

"  Professed  ! " 

"Answer  me,"  said  Valerie,  with  abrupt  energy,  "not  as  man 
to  woman,  but  as  one  human  creature  to  another.  From  the 
bottom  of  your  heart,  from  the  core  of  your  conscience,  I  call  on 
you  to  speak  the  honest  and  the  simple  truth.  Do  you  love  me 
as  your  heart,  your  genius,  must  be  capable  of  loving?" 

"  I  love  you  truly — passionately  !  "  said  Maltravers,  surprised 
and  confused,  but  still  with  enthusiasm  in  his  musical  voice 
and  earnest  eyes.  Valerie  gazed  upon  him  as  if  she  sought  to 
penetrate  into  his  soul,  Maltravers  went  on.  "Yes,  Valerie, 
when  we  first  met,  you  aroused  a  long  dormant  and  delicious 
sentiment.  But,  since  then,  what  deep  emotions  has  that  sen- 
timent called  forth?  Your  graceful  intellect — your  lovely 
thoughts,  wise  yet  womanly — have  completed  the  conquest  your 
face  and  voice  began.  Valerie,  I  love  you.  And  you — you, 
Valerie — ah  !  I  do  not  deceive  myself — you  also — " 

"  Love  !  "  interrupted  Valerie,  deeply  blushing,  but  in  a  calm 
voice.     "  Ernest  Maltravers,  I  do  not  deny  it ;   honestly  and 


5o  ERNEST    MALTRAVER§. 

frankly  I  confess  the  fault.  I  have  examined  my  heart  during 
the  whole  of  the  last  sleepless  night,  and  I  confess  that  I  love 
you.     Now,  then,  understand  me;  we  meet  no  more." 

"  What  ! "  said  Maltravers,  falling  involuntarily  at  her  feet, 
and  seeking  to  detain  her  hand,  which  he  seized.  "What! 
now,  when  you  have  given  life  a  new  charm,  will  you  as  sud- 
denly blast  it?     No,  Valerie;  no,  I  will  not  listen  to  you." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rose  and  said,  with  a  cold  dignity — 
"  Hear  me  calmly,  or  quit  the  room  ;  and  all  I  would  now  say 
rests  forever  unspoken." 

Maltravers  rose  also,  folded  his  arms  haughtily,  bit  his  lips, 
and  stood  erect,  and  confronting  Valerie  rather  in  the  attitude 
of  an  accuser  than  a  suppliant. 

"  Madame,"  said  he  gravely,  "  I  will  offend  no  more  ;  I  will 
trust  tc  your  manner,  since  I  may  not  believe  your  words." 

"You  are  cruel,"  said  Valerie,  smiling  mournfully  ;  "but  so 
are  all  men.  Now  let  me  make  myself  understood.  I  was  betrothed 
to  Monsieur  de  Ventadour  in  my  childhood.  I  did  not  see  him 
till  a  month  before  we  married.  I  had  no  choice.  French  girls 
have  none.  We  were  wed.  I  had  formed  no  other  attachment, 
I  was  proud  and  vain  ;  wealth,  ambition,  and  social  rank  for  a 
time  satisfied  my  faculties  and  my  heart.  At  length  I  grew  rest- 
less and  unhappy.  I  felt  that  the  something  of  life  was  wanting. 
Monsieur  de  Ventadour's  sister  was  the  first  to  recommend  to 
me  the  common  resource  of  our  sex — at  least  in  France — a  lover. 
I  was  shocked  and  startled,  for  I  belong  to  a  family  in  which 
women  are  chaste  and  men  brave.  I  began,  however,  to  look 
around  me,  and  examine  the  truth  of  the  philosophy  of  vice.  I 
found  that  no  woman  who  loved  honestly  and  deeply  an  illicit 
lover,  was  happy.  I  found,  too,  the  hideous  profundity  of 
Rochefoucauld's  maxim,  that  a  woman — I  speak  of  French 
women — may  live  without  a  lover  ;  but,  a  lover  once  adrnitted, 
she  never  goes  through  life  with  07ily  one.  She  is  deserted ;  she 
cannot  bear  the  anguish  and  the  solitude ;  she  fills  up  the  void 
with  a  second  idol.  For  her  there  is  no  longer  a  fall  from  virtue  : 
it  is  a  gliding  and  involuntary  descent  from  sin  to  sin,  till  old 
age  comes  on  and  leaves  her  without  love  and  without  respect. 
I  reasoned  calmly,  for  my  passions  did  not  blind  my  reason,  I 
could  not  love  the  egotists  around  me.  I  resolved  upon  my  career ; 
and  now,  in  temptation,  I  will  adhere  to  it.  Virtue  is  my  lover, 
my  pride,  my  comfort,  my  life  of  life.  Do  you  love  me,  and  will 
you  rob  me  of  this  ti^asure?  I  saw  you,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
felt  a  vague  and  intoxicating  interest  in  another ;  but  I  did  not 
dream  of  danger.     As  our  acquaintance  advanced  I  formed  to 


ERNEST  MALtRAVERS.  8l 

myself  a  romantic  and  delightful  vision.  I  would  be  your  firmest, 
your  truest  friend  ;  your  confidant,  your  adviser — perhaps,  in 
some  epochs  of  life,  your  inspiration  and  your  guide.  I  repeat 
that  I  foresaw  no  danger  in  your  society.  I  felt  myself  a  nobler 
and  a  better  being.  I  felt  more  benevolent,  more  tolerant,  more 
exalted.  I  saw  life  through  the  medium  of  purifying  admiration 
for  a  gifted  nature,  and  a  profound  and  generous  soul.  I  fancied 
wemightbeever  thus — each  to  each  ; — onestrengthened, assured, 
supported  by  the  other.  Nay,  I  even  contemplated  with  pleasure 
the  prospect  of  your  future  marriage  with  another — of  loving 
your  wife — of  contributing  with  her  to  your  happiness — my 
imagination  made  me  forget  that  we  are  made  of  clay.  Suddenly 
all  these  visions  were  dispelled — the  fairy  palace  wasoverthrown, 
and  I  found  myself  awake,  and  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss — you 
loved  me,  and  in  the  moment  of  that  fatal  confession,  the  mask 
dropped  from  my  soul,  and  I  felt  that  you  had  become  too  dear 
to  me.  Be  silent  still,  I  implore  you.  I  do  not  tell  you  of  the 
emotions,  of  the  struggles,  through  which  I  have  passed  the  last 
few  hours — the  crisis  of  a  life.  I  tell  you  only  of  the  resolution 
I  formed.  I  thought  it  due  to  you,  nor  unworthy  of  myself,  to 
speak  the  truth.  Perhaps  it  might  be  more  womanly  to  conceal 
it ;  but  my  heart  has  something  masculine  in  its  nature.  I  have 
a  great  faith  in  your  nobleness.  I  believe  you  can  sympathize 
with  whatever  is  best  in  human  weakness.  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you — I  throw  myself  upon  your  generosity.  I  beseech  you  to 
assist  my  own  sense  of  right — to  think  well  of  me,  to  honor  me — 
and  to  leave  me." 

During  the  last  part  of  this  strange  and  frank  avowal,  Valerie's 
voice  had  grown  inexpressibly  touching  :  her  tenderness  forced 
itself  into  her  manner  ;  and  when  she  ceased,  her  lip  quivered  ; 
her  tears,  repressed  by  a  violent  effort,  trembled  in  her  eyes — her 
hands  were  clasped — her  attitude  was  that  of  humility,  not  pride. 

Maltraversstood'perfectly  spell-bound.  At'lengthheadvanced; 
dropped  on  one  knee,  kissed  her  hand  with  an  aspect  and  air  of 
reverential  homage,  and  turned  to  quit  the  room  in  silence  ;" 
for  he  would  not  dare  to  trust  himself  to  speak. 

Valerie  gazed  at  him  in  anxious  alarm.  "Oh  no,  no  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  "  do  not  leave  me  yet ;  this  is  our  last  meeting — our 
last.  Tell  me,  at  least,  that  you  understand  me ;  that  you  see, 
if  I  am  no  weak  fool,  I  am  also  no  heartless  coquette ;  tell  me 
that  you  see  I  am  not  so  hard  as  I  have  seemed  ;  that  I  have 
not  knowingly  trifled  with  your  happiness  ;  that  even  now  I  am 
not  selfish.  Your  love, — I  ask  it  no  more  !  But  your  esteem — ■ 
your  good  opinion.     Oh,  speak — speak,  I  implore  you  !  " 


82  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  Valerie,"  said  Maltravers,  "  if  I  was  silent,  it  was  because 
my  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  You  have  raised  all  woman- 
hood in  my  eyes.  I  did  love  you — I  now  venerate  and  adore. 
Your  noble  frankness,  so  unlike  the  irresolute  frailty,  the  miser- 
able wiles  of  your  sex,  has  touched  a  chord  in  my  heart  that 
has  been  mute  for  years.  I  leave  you  to  think  better  of  human 
nature.  Oh  !"  he  continued,  "hasten  to  forget  all  of  me  that 
will  cost  you  a  pang.  Let  me  still,  in  absence  and  in  sadness, 
think  that  I  retain  in  your  friendship — let  it  be  friendship  only — 
the  inspiration,  the  guide  of  which  you  spoke;  and  if,  hereafter, 
men  shall  name  me  with  praise  and  honor,  feel,  Valerie,  feel 
tiiat  I  have  comforted  myself  for  the  loss  of  your  love  by  be- 
coming worthy  of  your  confidence — your  esteem.  Oh  that  we 
had  met  earlier,  when  no  barrier  was  between  us  ! " 

"  Go,  go,  now"  faltered  Valerie,  almost  choked  with  her 
emotions  ;  "  may  Heaven  bless  you  !     Go  !  " 

Maltravers  muttered  a  few  inaudible  and  incoherent  words, 
and  quitted  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  The  men  of  sense,  those  idols  of  the  shallow,  are  very  inferior  to  the 
men  of  Passions.  It  is  the  strong  passions  which,  rescuing  us  from  sloth, 
can  alone  impart  to  us  that  continuous  and  earnest  attention  necessary  to 
great  intellectual  efforts." — Helvetius. 

When  Ferrers  returned  that  day  from  his  customary  ride,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  the  lobbies  and  hall  of  the  apartment 
which  he  occupied  in  common  with  Maltravers  littered  with 
bags  and  malles,  boxes  and  books,  and  Ernest's  valet  direct- 
ing porters  and  waiters  in  a  mosaic  of  French,  English  and 
Italian. 

"Well,"  said  Lumley,  "and  what  is  all  this?" 

"  II  signore  va  partir,  sare,  ah  !  mon  Dieu  ! — tout  of  a  sud- 
den." 

"  O — h  !  and  where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  In  his  room,  sare." 

Over  the  chaos  strode  Ferrers,  and  opening  the  door  of  his 
friend's  dressing-room  without  ceremony,  he  saw  Maltravers 
buried  in  a  fauteuil,  with  his  hands  dropping  on  his  knees,  his 
head  bent  over  his  breast,  and  his  whole  attitude  expressive  of 
dejection  and  exhaustion. 

**  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Ernest  ?  You  have  not  killed 
a  man  in  a  duel  ? "  , 


ERNESt   MALTRAVERS.  83 

"  No." 

"  What  then  ? — Why  are  you  going  away,  and  whither  ? " 

"  No  matter  ;  leave  me  in  peace." 

"Friendly  !"  said  Ferrers;  "very  friendly  !  And  what  is  to 
become  of  me — what  companion  am  I  to  have  in  this  cursed 
resort  of  antiquarians  and  luzzaroni  ?  You  have  no  feeling, 
Mr.  Maltravers  !  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  then  ?  "  said  Maltravers,  in  vain 
endeavoring  to  rouse  himself. 

"But  where  are  you  going?" 

"  Anywhere  ;  to  Paris — to  London." 

"  No  ;  I  have  arranged  my  plans  for  the  summer,  I  am  not 
so  rich  as  some  people.     I  hate  change  ;  it  is  so  expensive." 

■*  But,  my  dear  fellow — " 

"  Is  tliis  fair  dealing  with  me  ?  "  continued  Lumley,  who,  for 
once  in  his  life  was  really  angry.  "  If  I  were  an  old  coat  you 
had  worn  for  five  years,  you  could  not  throw  me  off  with  more 
nonchalance." 

"  Ferrers,  forgive  me.  My  honor  is  concerned.  I  must 
leave  this  place.  I  trust  you  will  remain  my  guest  here,  though 
in  the  absence  of  your  host.  You  know  that  I  have  engaged 
the  apartments  for  the  next  three  months." 

"Humph!"  said  Ferrers;  "as  that  is  the  case,  I  may  as 
well  stay  here.  But  why  so  secret  ?  Have  you  seduced  Mad- 
dame  de  Ventadour,  or  has  her  wise  husband  his  suspicions  ? 
Hein,  hein  ! " 

Maltravers  smothered  his  disgust  at  this  coarseness  ;  and, 
perhaps,  there  is  no  greater  trial  of  temper  than  in  a  he  friend's 
gross  remarks  upon  the  connections  of  the  heart. 

"  Ferrers,"  said  he,  "  if  you  care  for  me,  breathe  not  a  word 
disrespectful  of  Madame  de  Ventadour  :  she  is  an  angel  !  " 

"  But  why  leave  Naples  ? " 

"Trouble  me  no  more." 

"  Good-day,  sir,"  said  Ferrers,  highly  offended,  and  he  stalked 
out  of  the  chamber ;  nor  did  Ernest  see  him  again  before  his 
departure. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Maltravers  found  himself 
alone  in  his  carriage,  pursuing  by  starlight  the  ancient  and 
melancholy  road  to  Mola  di  Gaeta. 

His  solitude  was  a  luxury  to  Maltravers  ;  he  felt  an  inex- 
pressible sense  of  release  to  be  freed  from  Ferrers.  The  hard 
sense,  the  unpliant,  though  humorous  imperiousness,  the  animal 
sensuality  of  his  companion  would  have  been  a  torture  to  him 
in  his  present  state  of  mind. 


84  ERNEST   MALTfeAVERS. 

Next  morning,  when  he  arose,  the  orange  blossoms  of  Mola 
di  Gaeta  were  sweet  beneath  the  window  of  the  inn  where  lie 
rested.  It  was  now  the  early  spring,  and  the  freshness  of  the 
odor,  the  breathing  health  of  earth  and  air,  it  is  impossible  to 
describe.  Italy  itself  boasts  few  spots  more  lovely  than  that 
same  Mola  di  Gaeta — nor  does  that  halcyon  sea  wear,  even  at 
Naples  or  Sorrento,  a  more  bland  and  enchanting  smile. 

So,  after  a  hasty  and  scarcely  tasted  breakfast,  Maltravers 
strolled  through  the  orange  groves,  and  gained  the  beach  ;  and 
there  stretched  at  idle  length  by  the  murmuring  waves,  he  re- 
signed himself  to  thought,  and  endeavored,  for  the  first  time 
since  his  parting  with  Valerie,  to  collect  and  examine  the  state 
of  his  mind  and  feelings.  Maltravers,  to  his  own  surprise,  did  not 
find  himself  so  unhappy  as  he  had  expected.  On  the  contrary, 
a  soft  and  almost  delicious  sentiment,  which  he  could  not  well 
define,  floated  over  all  his  memories  of  the  beautiful  French- 
woman. Perhaps  the  secret  was,  that  while  his  pride  was  not 
mortified,  his  conscience  was  not  galled — perhaps,  also,  he  had 
not  loved  Valerie  so  deeply  as  he  had  imagined.  The  confes- 
sion and  the  separation  had  happily  come  before  her  presence 
had  grown — the  want  of  a  life.  As  it  was,  he  felt  as  if,  by  some 
holy  and  mystic  sacrifice,  he  had  been  made  reconciled  to  him- 
self and  mankind.  He  woke  to  a  juster  and  higher  apprecia- 
tion of  human  nature,  and  of  woman's  nature  in  especial.  He 
found  honesty  and  truth,  where  he  might  have  least  expected 
it — in  a  woman  of  a  court — in  a  woman  surrounded  by  vicious 
and  frivolous  circles — in  a  woman  Avho  had  nothing  in  the  opin- 
ion of  her  friends,  her  country,  her  own  husband,  the  social 
system  in  which  she  moved,  to  keep  her  from  the  concessions 
of  frailty — in  a  woman  of  the  world — a  woman  of  Paris  ! — yes, 
it  was  his  very  disappointment  that  drove  away  the  fogs  and 
vapors  that,  arising  from  the  marshes  of  the  great  world,  had 
gradually  settled  around  his  soul.  Valerie  de  Ventadour  had 
taught  him  not  to  despise  her  sex,  not  to  judge  by  appearances, 
not  to  sicken  of  a  low  and  hypocritical  world.  He  looked  in 
his  heart  for  the  love  of  Valerie,  and  he  found  there  the  love 
of  Virtue. 

Thus,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  inward,  did  he  gradually  awaken 
to  a  sense  of  the  true  impressions  engraved  there.  And  he  felt  the 
bitterest  drop  of  the  deep  fountains  was  not  sorrow  for  himself, 
but  for  her.  What  pangs  must  that  high  spirit  have  endured 
ere  it  could  have  submitted  to  the  avowal  it  had  made  !  Yet, 
even  in  this  affliction,  he  found  at  last  a  solace.  A  mind  so 
Strong  could  support  and  heal   the  weakness  of  the  heart.     He 


ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS.  85 

felt  that  Valerie  de  Ventadour  was  not  a  woman  to  pine  away 
in  the  unresisted  indulgence  of  morbid  and  unholy  emotions. 
He  could  not  flatter  himself  that  she  would  not  seek  to  eradi- 
cate a  love  she  repented  ;  and  he  sighed  with  a  natural  selfish- 
ness, when  he  owned  also  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  succeed. 
"  But  be  it  so,"  said  he,  half  aloud — "I  will  prepare  my  heart 
to  rejoice  when  I  learn  that  she  remembers  me  only  as  a  friend. 
Next  to  the  bliss  of  her  love  is  the  pride  of  her  esteem." 

Such  was  the  sentiment  with  which  his  reveries  closed — and 
with  every  league  that  bore  him  further  from  the  south,  the 
sentiment  grew  strengthened  and  confirmed. 

Ernest  Maltravers  felt  that  there  is  in  the  Affections  them- 
selves so  much  to  purify  and  exalt,  that  even  an  erring  love, 
conceived  without  a  cold  design,  and  (when  his  nature  is  fairly 
understood)  wrestled  against  with  a  noble  spirit,  leaves  the 
heart  more  tolerant  and  tender,  and  the  mind  more  settled  and 
enlarged.  The  philosophy  limited  to  the  reason  puts  into 
motion  the  automata  of  the  closet — but  to  those  who  have  the 
world  for  a  stage,  and  who  find  their  hearts  are  the  great  actors, 
experience  and  wisdom  must  be  wrought  from  the  Philosophy 
of  the  Passions. 


BOOK   III. 

'Q  'irS^hM  ov  navTi  (jxiEiverai,     *     *    ♦ 
'Of  fuv  bdj],  /iiyac  ovtoc. 

Callim.     ^jt.  Hymno  in  Apollinum, 

"  Not  to  all  men  Apollo  shows  himself — 
Who  sees  him — he  is  great." 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sound  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears — soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. " 

Shakespeare. 

BOAT  SONG  ON  THE  LAKE  OF  COMO. 

I. 
The  Beautiful  Clime  ! — the  Clime  of  Love  ! 

Thou  beautiful  Italy ! 
Like  a  mother's  eyes,  the  earnest  skie$ 

JJy^i:  b^vf  smijes  for  thee  ! 


86  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS, 

Not  a  flower  that  blows,  not  a  beam  that  glows, 

But  what  is  in  love  with  thee  ! 
II. 
The  beautiful  lake,  the  Larian  lake  I 

Soft  lake  like  a  silver  sea. 
The  Huntress  Queen,  with  her  nymphs  of  sheen, 

Never  had  bath  like  thee. 
See,  the  Lady  of  Night  and  her  maids  of  light. 

Even  now  are  mid-deep  in  thee. 
III. 
Beautiful  child  of  the  lonely  hills, 

Ever  blest  may  thy  slumbers  be! 
No  mourner  should  tread  by  thy  dreamy  bed. 

No  life  bring  a  care  to  thee — 
Nay,  soft  to  thy  bed,  let  the  mourner  tread — 

And  life  be  a  dream  like  thee! 

Such,  though  uttered  in  the  soft  Italian  tone,  and  now  imper- 
fectly translated — such  were  the  notes  that  floated  one  lovely 
evening  in  summer  along  the  lake  of  Como.  The  boat,  from 
which  came  the  song,  drifted  gently  down  the  sparkling  waters, 
toward  the  mossy  banks  of  a  lawn,  whence  on  a  little  eminence 
gleamed  the  white  walls  of  a  villa,  backed  by  vineyards.  On 
that  lawn  stood  a  young  and  handsome  woman,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  her  husband,  and  listening  to  the  song.  But  lier  delight 
was  soon  deepened  into  one  of  more  personal  interest,  as  the 
boatmen,  nearing  the  banks,  changed  their  measure,  and  she 
felt  that  the  minstrelsy  was  in  honor  of  herself. 

SERENADE  TO  THE  SONGSTRESS. 
I. 

Chorus. 
Softly — oh,  soft!  let  us  rest  on  the  oar, 
And  vex  not  a  billow  that  sighs  to  the  shore: — 
For  sacred  the  spot  where  the  starry  waves  meet 
With  the  beach,  where  the  breath  of  the  citron  is  sweet. 
There's  a  spell  on  the  waves  that  now  waft  us  along 
To  the  last  of  our  Muses,  the  Spirit  of  Song. 
Recitative. 

The  Engle  of  old  renown. 

And  the  Lombard's  iron  crown. 
And  Milan's  mighty  name  are  ours  no  more^ 

But  by  this  glassy  water, 

Harmonia's  youngest  daughter. 
Still  from  the  lightning  saves  one  laurel  to  our  shore. 

II. 
Chorus. 
They  heat  a  thee,  Teresa,  the  Teuton,  the  Gaul, 
Whp  liave  raised  the  rude  thrones  of  the  North  on  our  fjill} 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERG.  8/ 

Thoy  heard  thee,  and  bow'd  to  the  might  of  thy  song, 
Like  love  went  thy  steps  o'er  the  hearts  of  the  strong, 
As  the  moon  to  the  air,  as  the  soul  to  the  clay, 
To  the  void  of  this  earth  was  the  breath  of  thy  lay. 

Recitative. 

Honor  for  aye  to  her 

The  bright  interpreter 
Of  Art's  great  mysteries  to  the  enchanted  throng; 

While  tyrants  heard  thy  strains, 

Sad  Rome  forgot  her  chains; 
The  world  the  sword  had  lost  was  conquer'd  back  by  song! 

"  Thou  repentest,  my  Teresa,  that  thou  hast  renounced  thy 
dazzling  career  for  a  dull  home,  and  a  husband  old  enough  to 
be  thy  father,"  said  the  husband  to  the  wife,  with  a  smile  that 
spoke  confidence  in  the  answer. 

"Ah,  no!  even  this  homage  would  have  no  music  for  me  if 
thou  didst  not  hear  it." 

She  was  a  celebrated  personage  in  Italy — the  Signorina  Ce- 
sarini,  now  Madame  de  Montaigne!  Her  earlier  youth  had  been 
spent  upon  the  stage,  and  her  promise  of  vocal  excellence  had 
been  most  brilliant.  But  after  a  brief,  though  splendid  career, 
she  married  a  French  gentleman  of  good  birth  and  fortune,  re- 
tired from  the  stage,  and  spent  her  life  alternately  in  the  gay 
salons  of  Paris,  and  upon  the  banks  of  the  dreamy  Como,  on 
which  her  husband  had  purchased  a  small,  but  beautiful  villa. 
She  still,  however,  exercised  in  private  her  fascinating  art;  to 
which — for  she  was  a  woman  of  singular  accomplishment  and 
talent — she  added  the  gift  of  the  improvvisatrice.  She  had  just 
returned  for  the  summer  to  this  lovely  retreat,  and  a  party  of 
enthusiastic  youths  from  Milan  had  sought  the  lake  of  Como  to 
welcome  her  arrival  with  the  suitable  homage  of  song  and  music. 
It  is  a  charming  relic,  that  custom  of  the  brighter  days  of  Italy; 
and  I  myself  have  listened,  on  the  still  waters  of  the  same  lake, 
to  a  similar  greeting  to  a  greater  genius — the  queen-like  and 
unrivalled  Pasta — the  Semiramis  of  song!  And  while  my  boat 
paused,  and  I  caught  something  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the  sere- 
naders,  the  boatman  touched  me,  and,  pointing  to  a  part  of  the 
lake  on  which  the  setting  sun  shed  its  rosiest  smile,  he  said, 
"  There,  Signor,  was  drowned  one  of  your  countrymen — 'bellis- 
simo  nomo!  che  fu  bello  ! '  " — yes,  there  in  the  pride  of  his  prom- 
ising youth,  of  his  noble  and  almost  god-like  beauty,  before  the 
very  windows — the  very  eyes — of  his  bride — the  waves  without 
a  frown  had  swept  over  the  idol  of  many  hearts — the  graceful 


88  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

and  gallant  Locke.*  And  above  his  grave  was  the  voluptuous 
sky,  and  over  it  floated  the  triumphant  music.  It  was  as  the 
moral  of  the  Roman  poets — calling  the  living  to  a  holiday  over 
the  oblivion  of  the  dead. 

As  the  boat  now  touched  the  bank,  Madame  de  Montaigne 
accosted  the  musicians,  thanked  them  with  a  sweet  and  unaf- 
fected earnestness  for  the  compliment  so  delicately  offered,  and 
invited  them  ashore.  The  Milanese,  who  were  six  in  number, 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  moored  their  boat  to  the  jutting 
shore.  It  was  then  that  Monsieur  "de  Montaigne  pointed  out  to 
the  notice  of  his  wife  a  boat,  that  had  lingered  under  the  shadow 
of  a  bank,  tenanted  by  a  young  man,  who  had  seemed  to  listen 
with  rapt  attention  to  the  music,  and  who  once  had  joined  in 
the  chorus  (as  it  was  twice  repeated),  with  a  voice  so  exquisitely 
attuned,  and  so  rich  in  its  deep  power,  that  it  had  awakened  the 
admiration  even  of  the  serenaders  themselves. 

"  Dost  not  that  gentleman  belong  to  your  party  ?  "  De  Mon- 
taigne asked  of  the  Milanese. 

'*  No,  Signor,  we  know  him  not,"  was  the  answer;  **  his  boat 
came  unawares  upon  us  as  we  were  singing." 

While  this  question  and  answer  were  going  on,  the  young  man 
had  quitted  his  station,  and  his  oars  cut  the  glassy  surface  of 
the  lake,  just  before  the  place  where  De  Montaigne  stood.  With 
the  courtesy  of  his  country,  the  Frenchman  lifted  his  hat;  and 
by  his  gesture,  arrested  the  eye  and  oar  of  the  solitary  rower. 
"Will  you  honor  us,"  he  said,  "by  joining  our  party?" 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  I  covet  too  much  to  refuse,"  replied  the  boat- 
man, with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  and  another  moment  he  was 
on  shore.  He  was  one  of  remarkable  appearance.  His  longhair 
floated  with  a  careless  grace  over  a  brow  more  calm  and  thought- 
ful than  became  his  years;  his  manner  was  unusually  quiet  and 
self-collected,  and  not  without  a  certain  stateliness,  rendered 
more  striking  by  the  height  of  his  stature,  a  lordly  contour  of 
feature,  and  a  serene  but  settled  expression  of  melancholy  in  his 
eyes  and  smile.  "You  will  easily  believe,"  said  he,  "  that,  cold 
as  my  countrymen  are  esteemed  (for  you  must  have  discovered, 
already,  that  I  am  an  Englishman),  I  could  not  but  share  in  the 
enthusiasm  of  those  about  me,  when  loitering  near  the  very 
ground  sacred  to  the  inspiration.  For  the  rest,  I  am  residing  for 

♦  Captain  William  Locke,  of  the  Life  Guards  (the  only  son  of  the  accomplished  Mr. 
Locke  of  Norbury  Park),  distinguished  by  a  character  the  most  amiable,  and  by  a  personal 
beauty  that  certainly  equalled,  perhaps  surpassed,  the  highest  masterpiece  of  Grecian 
Sculpture.  He  was  then  returning,  in  a  boat,  from  the  town  of  Como,  to  his  villa  on  the 
banks  of  the  lake,  when  the  boat  was  upset  by  one  of  the  mysterious  undercurrents  to  which 
the  lake  is  dangerously  subjected,  and  he  was  drowned  in  sight  of  his  bride,  who  was  watch- 
ing his  return  from  the  'errage  or  balcony  of  their  home- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  89 

the  present  in  yonder  villa,  opposite  to  your  own;  my  name  is 
Maltravers,  and  I  am  enchanted  to  think  that  I  am  no  longer  a 
personal  stranger  to  one  whose  fame  has  already  reached  me." 

Madame  de  Montaigne  was  flattered  by  something  in  the  man- 
ner and  tone  of  the  Englishman,  which  said  a  great  deal  more 
than  his  words;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  beneath  the  influence  of 
the  happy  continental  ease,  the  whole  party  seemed  as  if  they 
had  known  each  other  for  years.  Wines  and  fruits,  and  other 
simple  and  unpretending  refreshments,  were  brought  out  and 
arranged  on  a  rude  table  upon  the  grass,  round  which  the  guests 
seated  themselves  with  their  host  and  hostess,  and  the  clear 
moon  shone  over  them,  and  the  lake  slept  below  in  silver.  It 
was  a  scene  for  a  Boccaccio  or  a  Claude. 

The  conversation  naturally  fell  upon  music;  it  is  almost  the 
only  thing  which  Italians  in  general  can  be  said  to  know — and 
even  that  knowledge  comes  to  them,  like  Dogberry's  reading  and 
writing,  by  nature — for  of  music,  as  an  art,  the  unprofessional 
amateurs  know  but  little.  As  vain  and  arrogant  of  the  last  wreck 
of  their  national  genius  as  the  Romans  of  old  were  of  the  em- 
pire of  all  arts  and  arms,  they  look  upon  the  harmonies  of  other 
lands  as  barbarous;  nor  can  they  appreciate  or  understand  ap- 
preciation of  the  mighty  German  music,  which  is  the  proper 
minstrelsy  of  a  nation  of  z«^« — amusicof  philosophy,  of  heroism, 
of  the  intellect  and  the  imagination;  beside  which,  the  strains 
of  modern  Italy  are  indeed  eifeminate,  fantastic,  and  artificially 
feeble.  Rossini  is  theCanova  of  music,  with  much  of  the  pretty, 
with  nothing  of  the  grand! 

The  little  party  talked,  however,  of  music,  with  an  animation 
and  gusto  that  charmed  the  melancholy  Maltravers,  who  for 
weeks  had  known  no  companion  save  his  own  thoughts,  and  with 
whom,  at  all  times,  enthusiasm  for  any  art  found  a  ready  sym- 
pathy. He  listened  attentively,  but  said  little ;  and  from  time 
to  time,  whenever  the  conversation  flagged,  amused  himself  by 
examining  his  companions.  The  six  Milanese  had  nothing  re- 
markable in  their  countenances  or  in  their  talk  ;  they  possessed 
the  characteristic  energy  and  volubility  of  their  countrymen, 
with  something  of  the  masculine  dignity  which  distinguishes  the 
Lombard  from  the  Southern,  and  a  little  of  the  French  polish, 
which  the  inhabitants  of  Milan  seldom  fail  to  contract.  Their 
rank  was  evidently  that  of  the  middle  class  ;  for  Milan  has  a 
middle  class,  and  one  which  promises  great  results  hereafter. 
But  they  were  noways  distinguished  from  a  thousand  other  Mil- 
anese whom  Maltravers  had  met  in  the  walks  and  caf^sof  their 
noble  city.     The  host  was  somewhat  more  interesting.     He  was 


90  ERNESt   MALTkAVERS. 

a  tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  eight-and-forty,  with  a  high  fore- 
head, and  features  strongly  impressed  with  the  sober  character 
of  thought.  He  had  but  little  of  the  French  vivacity  in  his  man- 
ner ;  and  without  looking  at  his  countenance,  you  would  still 
have  felt  insensibly  that  he  was  the  eldest  of  the  party.  His 
wife  was  at  least  twenty  years  younger  than  himself,  mirthful 
and  playful  as  a  child,  but  with  a  certain  feminine  and  fascinat- 
ing softness  in  her  unrestrained  gestures  and  sparkling  gaiety, 
which  seemed  to  subdue  her  natural  joyousness  into  the  form 
and  method  of  conventional  elegance.  Dark  hair  carelessly  ar- 
ranged, an  open  forehead,  large  black  laughing  eyes,  a  small 
straight  nose,  a  complexion  just  relieved  from  the  olive  by  an 
evanescent,  yet  perpetually  recurring  blush  ;  a  round  dimpled 
cheek,  an  exquisitely  shaped  mouth  with  small  pearly  teeth,  and 
a  light  and  delicate  figure  a  little  below  the  ordinary  standard, 
completed  the  picture  of  Madame  de  Montaigne. 

"Well,"  said  Signor  Tirabaloschi,  the  most  loquacious  and 
sentimental  of  the  guests,  filling  his  glass;  "these  are  hours  to 
think  of  for  the  rest  of  life.  But  we  can  not  hope  the  Signora  will 
long  remember  what  we  can  never  forget.  Paris,  says  the  French 
proverb,  est  le  pare  Us  des  femines  :  and,  in  paradise,  I  take  it  for 
granted,  we  recollect  very  little  of  what  happened  on  earth." 

"  Oh,"  said  Madame  de  Montaigne,  with  a  pretty  musical 
laugh  ;  "  in  Paris  it  is  the  rage  to  despise  the  frivolous  life  of 
cities,  and  to  affect  des  sentimens  romaiiesques.  This  is  precisely 
the  scene  which  our  fine  ladies  and  fine  writers  would  die  to 
talk  of  and  to  describe.  Is  it  not  so,  mon  ami?  "  and  she  turned 
affectionately  to  De  Montaigne. 

"  True,"  replied  he ;  "  but  you  are  not  worthy  of  such  a 
scene — you  laugh  at  sentiment  and  romance." 

"  Only  at  French  sentiment  and  the  romance  of  the  Chaus- 
s^e  d'Antin.  You  English,"  she  continued,  shaking  her  head 
at  Maltravers,  "have  spoiled  and  corrupted  us  ;  we  are  not  con- 
tent to  imitate  you,  we  must  excel  you  ;  we  out-horror  horror, 
and  rush  from  the  extravagant  into  the  frantic ! " 

"  The  ferment  of  the  new  school  is,  perhaps,  better  than  the 
stagnation  of  the  old,"  said  Maltravers.  "Yet  even  you,"  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  Italians,  "who  first  in  Petrarch,  in  Tasso, 
and  in  Ariosto,  set  to  Europe  the  example  of  the  Sentimental 
and  the  Romantic  ;  who  built  among  the  very  ruins  of  the  classic 
school,  amidst  its  Corinthian  columns  and  sweeping  arches,  the 
spires  and  battlements  of  the  Gothic — even  you  are  deserting  your 
old  models  and  guiding  literature  into  newer  and  wilder  paths. 
'Tis  the  way  of  the  world — eternal  progress  is  eternal  change.'* 


ERKEST    MALTRAVERS.  $1 

"Very  possibly,"  said  Signer  Tirabaloschi,  who  understood 
nothing  of  what  was  said.  "Nay,  it  is  extremely  profound  ;  on 
reflection,  it  is  beautiful — superb  ;  you  French  are  so — so — in 
short,  it  is  admirable.  Ugo  Foscolo  is  a  great  genius — so  is  Monti ; 
and  as  for  Rossini, — you  know  his  last  opera — cosa  slupenda!" 

Madame  de  Montaigne  glanced  at  Maltravers,  clapped  her 
little  hands,  and  laughed  outright.  Maltravers  caught  the  con- 
tagion, and  laughed  also.  But  he  hastened  to  repair  the  pedan- 
tic error  he  had  committed  of  talking  over  the  heads  of  the 
company.  He  took  up  the  guitar,  which,  among  their  musical 
instruments,  the  serenaders  had  brought,  and  after  touching  its 
chords  for  a  few  moments,  said  ;  "After  all,  madame,  in  your 
society,  and  with  this  moonlit  lake  before  us,  we  feel  as  if  music 
were  our  best  medium  of  conversation.  Let  us  prevail  upon 
these  gentlemen  to  delight  us  once  more." 

"  You  forestall  what  I  was  going  to  ask,"  said  the  ex-singer, 
and  Maltravers  offered  the  guitar  to  Tirabaloschi,  who  was  in 
fact  dying  to  exhibit  his  powers  again.  He  took  the  instrument 
with  a  slight  grimace  of  modesty,  and  then  saying  to  Madame 
de  Montaigne,  "There  is  a  song  composed  by  a  young  friend 
of  mine,  which  is  much  admired  by  the  ladies  ;  though  to  me,  it 
seems  a  little  too  sentimental,"  sang  the  following  stanzas  (as 
good  singers  are  wont)  with  as  much  feeling  as  if  he  could  un- 
derstand them  ! — 

NIGHT  AND  LOVE. 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Bend  on  me,  then,  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 

For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by  night. 

Are  stillest  where  they  shine  ; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hushed  in  light, 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  on  men  ; 
When  coarser  souls  are  wrapt  in  sleep, — 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then. 

There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams. 

Through  slumber,  fairest  glide  ; 
And  in  that  mystic  hour,  it  seems 

Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

The  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam  ;^ 
I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel,  and  my  dream  ! 


gi  ERNEST   MALTRAVEftS. 

And  now,  the  example  set,  and  the  phrases  of  the  fair  hostess 
exciting  general  emulation,  the  guitar  circled  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  each  of  the  Italians  performed  his  part ; — you  might 
have  fancied  yourself  at  one  of  the  old  Greek  feasts,  with  the 
lyre  and  the  myrtle-branch  going  the  round. 

But  both  the  Italians  and  the  Englishman  felt  the  entertain- 
ment would  be  incomplete  without  hearing  the  celebrated  vocal- 
ist and  improvvisatrice  who  presided  over  the  little  banquet;  and 
Madame  de  Montaigne,  with  a  woman's  tact,  divined  the  gen- 
eral wish,  and  anticipated  the  request  that  was  sure  to  be  made. 
So  she  took  the  guitar  from  the  last  singer,  and  turning  to  Mal- 
travers,said,  "You  have  heard, of  course,some  of  our  more  eminent 
improvvisatori,  and  therefore  if  I  ask  for  a  subject  it  will  be  only  to 
prove  to  you  that  the  talent  is  not  general  amongst  the  Italians." 

"Ah,"  said  Maltravers,  "I  have  heard, indeed,  some  ugly  old 
gentlemen  with  immense  whiskers,and  gestures  of  the  most  alarm- 
ing ferocity,  pour  out  their  vehement  impromptus  ;  but  I  have 
never  yet  listened  to  a  young  and  a  handsome  lady.  I  shall  only 
believe  the  inspiration  when  I  hear  it  direct  from  the  Muse." 

"  Well,  I  will  do  my  best  to  deserve  your  compliments — you 
must  give  me  the  theme." 

Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and  suggested  the  Influence  of 
Praise  on  Genius. 

The  improvvisatrice  nodded  assent,  and  after  a  short  prelude 
broke  forth  into  a  wild  and  varied  strain  of  verse,  in  a  voice  so 
exquisitely  sweet,  with  a  taste  so  accurate,  and  a  feeling  so  deep, 
that  the  poetry  sounded  to  the  enchanted  listeners  like  the  lan- 
guage that  Armida  might  have  uttered.  Yet  the  verses  them- 
selves, like  all  extemporaneous  effusions,  were  of  a  nature  both 
to  pass  from  the  memory  and  to  defy  transcription. 

When  Madame  de  Montaigne's  song  ceased,  no  rapturous  plau- 
dits followed — the  Italians  were  too  affected  by  the  science,  Mal- 
travers by  the  feeling,  for  the  coarseness  of  ready  praise  ; — and 
ere  that  delighted  silence  which  made  the  first  impulse  was 
broken,  a  new-comer,  descending  from  the  groves  that  clothed 
the  ascent  behind  the  house,  was  in  the  midst  of  the  party. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  brother,"  cried  Madame  de  Montaigne,  starting 
up,  and  hanging  fondly  on  the  arm  of  the  stranger,  "why  have 
you  lingered  so  long  in  the  wood  ?  You,  so  delicate  !  And  how 
are  you  ?     How  pale  you  seem  !  " 

"  It  is  but  the  reflection  of  the  moonlight,  Teresa,"  said  the 
intruder ;  "I  feel  well."  So  saying,  he  scowled  on  the  merry 
party,  and  turned  as  if  to  slink  away. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  Teresa,  "you  must  stay  a  moment  and 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  93 

be  presented  to  my  guests :  there  is  an  Englishman  here  whom 
you  will  like — who  will  interest  you." 

With  that  she  almost  dragged  him  forward,  and  introduced 
him  to  her  guests.  Signor  Cesarini  returned  their  salutations 
with  a  mixture  of  bashfulness  and  hauteur,  half-awkward  and 
half-graceful,  and  muttering  some  inaudible  greeting,  sank  into  a 
seat  and  appeared  instantly  lost  in  reverie.  Maltravers  gazed 
upon  him,  and  was  pleased  with  his  aspect — which,  if  not  hand- 
some, was  strange  and  peculiar.  He  was  extremely  slight  and 
thin — his  cheeks  hollow  and  colorless,  with  a  profusion  of  black 
silken  ringlets  that  almost  descended  to  his  shoulders.  His 
eyes,  deeply  sunk  into  his  head,  were  large  and  intensely  bril- 
liant ;  and  a  thin  moustache,  curling  downward,  gave  an  addi- 
tional austerity  to  his  mouth,  which  was  closed  with  gloomy  and 
half-sarcastic  firmness.  He  was  not  dressed  as  people  dress  in 
general,  but  wore  a  frock  of  dark  camlet,  with  a  large  shirt-collar 
turned  down,  and  a  narrow  strip  of  black  silk  twisted  rather 
than  tied  round  his  throat ;  his  nether  garments  fitted  tight  to 
his  limbs,  and  a  pair  of  half-hessians  completed  his  costume. 
It  was  evident  that  the  young  man  (and  he  was  very  young — 
perhaps  about  nineteen  or  twenty)  indulged  that  coxcombry  of 
the  Picturesque  which  is  the  sign  of  a  vainer  mind  than  is  the 
commoner  coxcombry  of  the  Mode. 

It  is  astonishing  how  frequently  it  happens,  that  the  intro- 
duction of  a  single  intruder  upon  a  social  party  is  sufficient  to 
destroy  all  the  familiar  harmony  that  existed  there  before.  We 
see  it  even  when  the  intruder  is  agreeable  and  communicative — 
but  in  the  present  instance  a  ghost  could  scarcely  have  been  a 
more  unwelcoming  or  unwelcome  visitor.  The  presence  of  this 
shy,  speechless,  supercilious-looking  man,  threw  a  damp  over 
the  whole  group.  The  gay  Tirabaloschi  immediately  discovered 
that  it  was  time  to  depart — it  had  not  struck  any  one  before, 
but  it  certainly  was  late.  The  Italians  began  to  bustle  about,  to 
collect  their  music,  to  make  fine  speeches  and  fine  professions — 
to  bow  and  to  smile — to  scramble  into  their  boat,  and  to  push 
off  toward  the  inn  at  Como,  where  they  had  engaged  their 
quarters  for  the  night.  As  the  boat  glided  away,  and  while 
two  of  them  were  employed  at  the  oar,  the  remaining  four  took 
up  their  instruments  and  sang  a  parting  glee.  It  was  quite 
midnight — the  hush  of  all  things  round  had  grown  more  in- 
tense and  profound — there  was  a  wonderful  might  of  silence 
in  the  shining  air  and  amidst  the  shadows  thrown  by  the  near 
banks  and  the  distant  hills  over  the  water.  So  that  as  the 
music    chiming   in  with  the    oars   grew  fainter   and   fainter, 


94  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  thrilling  and  magical  effect 
it  produced. 

The  party  ashore  did  not  speak  ;  there  was  a  moisture,  a 
grateful  one,  in  the  bright  eyes  of  Teresa,  as  she  leant  upon  the 
manly  form  of  De  Montaigne,  for  whom  her  attachment  was, 
perhaps,  yet  more  deep  and  pure  for  the  difference  of  their 
ages.  A  girl  who  once  loves  a  man,  not  indeed  old,  but  much 
older  than  herself,  loves  him  with  such  a  looking  up  and  ven- 
erating love  !  Maltravers  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  couple, 
on  the  edge  of  the  shelving  bank,  with  folded  arms  and  thought- 
ful countenance.  "  How  is  it,"  said  he,  unconscious  that  he  was 
speaking  half  aloud,  "that  the  commonest  beings  of  the  world 
should  be  able  to  give  us  a  pleasure  so  unworldly  ?  What  a 
contrast  between  those  musicians  and  this  music  !  At  this  dis- 
tance their  forms  are  dimly  seen,  one  might  almost  fancy  the 
creators  of  those  sweet  sounds  to  be  of  another  mould  from  us. 
Perhaps  even  thus  the  poetry  of  the  Past  rings  on  our  ears — 
the  deeper  and  the  diviner,  because  removed  from  the  clay 
which  made  the  poets.  O  Art,  Art !  how  dost  thou  beautify 
and  exalt  us  ;  what  is  nature  without  thee  ! " 

"  You  are  a  poet,  Signor,"  said  a  soft  clear  voice  beside  the 
soliloquist;  and  Maltravers  started  to  find  that  he  had  unknow- 
ingly a  listener  in  the  young  Cesarini. 

"No,"  said  Maltravers,  "I  cull  the  flowers,  I  do  not  cultivate 
the  soil." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Cesarini,  with  abrupt  energy;  "you 
are  an  Englishman — you  have  a  public — you  have  a  country — 
you  have  a  living  stage,  a  breathing  audience;  we,  Italians, 
have  nothing  but  the  dead." 

As  he  looked  on  the  young  man,  Maltravers  was  surprised  to 
see  the  sudden  animation  which  glowed  upon  his  pale  features. 

"You  asked  me  a  question  I  fain  would  put  to  you,"  said 
the  Englishman,  after  a  pause.     ^''You,  methinks,  are  a  poet  ?*' 

"  I  have  fancied  that  I  might  be  one.  But  poetry  with  us  is 
a  bird  in  the  wilderness — it  sings  from  an  impulse — the  song 
dies  without  a  listener.  Oh  that  I  belonged  to  a  living  country, 
France,  England,  Germany,  America, — and  not  to  the  corrup- 
tion of  a  dead  giantess — for  such  is  now  the  land  of  the  ancient 
lyre." 

"Let  us  meet  again,  and  soon,"  said  Maltravers,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Cesarini  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  accepted  and  returned 
the  proffered  salutation.  Reserved  as  he  was,  something  in 
Maltravers  attracted  him;  and,  indeed,  there  was  that  in  Ernest 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  95 

which  fascinated  most  of  those  unhappy  eccentrics  who  do  not 
move  in  the  common  orbit  of  the  world. 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  Englishman  had  said  farewell  lo 
the  owners  of  the  villa,  and  his  light  boat  skimmed  rapidly  over 
the  tide. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Inglesel"  said  Madame  de  Mon- 
taigne to  her  husband,  as  they  turned  toward  the  house.  (They 
said  not  a  word  about  the  Milanese.) 

"He  has  a  noble  bearing  for  one  so  young,"  said  the  French- 
man, "and  seems  to  have  seen  the  world,  and  both  to  have 
profited  and  to  have  suffered  by  it." 

"  He  will  prove  an  acquisition  to  our  society  here,"  returned 
Teresa;  "he  interests  me;  and  you,  Castruccio?"  turning  to 
seek  her  brother;  but  Cesarini  had  already,  with  his  usual  noise- 
less step,  disappeared  within  the  house. 

"Alas,  my  poor  brother!"  she  replied,  "I  cannot  compre- 
hend him.     What  does  he  desire?" 

"  Fame  !  "  replied  De  Montaigne,  calmly.  "  It  is  a  vain 
shadow ;  no  wonder  that  he  disquiets  himself  in  vain." 


CHAPTER  H. 

"  Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ; 
Were  it  not  better  done  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair  ?  " 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

There  is  nothing  more  salutary  to  active  men  than  occasional 
interviews  of  repose, — when  we  look  within,  instead  of  without, 
and  examine  almost  insensibly  (for  I  hold  strict  and  conscious 
self-scrutiny  a  thing  much  rarer  than  we  suspect) — what  we 
have  done — what  we  are  capable  of  doing.  It  is  settling,  as  it 
were,  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  with  the  Past,  before  we 
plunge  into  new  speculations.  Such  an  interval  of  repose  did 
Maltravers  now  enjoy.  In  utter  solitude,  so  far  as  familiar 
companionship  is  concerned,  he  had  for  several  weeks  been 
making  himself  acquainted  with  his  own  character  and  mind. 
He  read  and  thought  much,  but  without  any  exact  or  defined 
object.  I  think  it  is  Montaigne  who  says  somewhere — "  People 
talk  about  thinking — but  for  my  part  I  never  think,  except  when 
I  sit  down  to  write."  I  believe  this  is  not  a  very  common  case, 
for  people  who  don't  write  think  as  well  as  people  who  do;  but 


g6  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS, 

connected,  severe,  well-developed  thought,  in  contradistinction 
to  vague  meditation,  must  be  connected  with  some  tangible 
plan  or  object;  and  therefore  we  must  be  either  writing  men  or 
acting  men,  if  we  desire  to  test  the  logic,  and  unfold  into  sym- 
metrical design  the  fused  colors  of  our  reasoning  faculty. 
Maltravers  did  not  yet  feel  this,  but  he  was  sensible  of  some 
intellectual  want.  His  ideas,  his  memories,  his  dreams,  crowded 
thick  and  confused  upon  him;  he  wished  to  arrange  them  in 
order,  and  he  could  not.  He  was  overpowered  by  the  unorgan- 
ized affluence  of  his  own  imagination  and  intellect.  He  had 
often,  even  as  a  child,  fancied  that  he  was  formed  to  do  some- 
thing in  the  world,  but  he  had  never  steadily  considered  what 
it  was  to  be,  whether  he  was  to  become  a  man  of  books  or  a 
man  of  deeds.  He  had  written  poetry  when  it  poured  irresistibly 
from  the  fount  of  emotion  within,  but  looked  at  his  effusions 
with  a  cold  and  neglectful  eye  when  the  enthusiasm  had  passed 
away. 

Maltravers  was  not  much  gnawed  by  the  desire  of  fame — 
perhaps  few  men  of  real  genius  are,  until  artificially  worked  up 
to  it.  There  is  in  a  sound  and  correct  intellect,  with  all  its 
gifts  fairly  balanced,  a  calm  consciousness  of  power,  a  certainty 
that  when  its  strength  is  fairly  put  out,  it  must  be  to  realize  the 
usual  result  of  strength.  Men  of  second-rate  faculties,  on  the 
contrary,  are  fretful  and  nervous,  fidgeting  after  a  celebrity 
which  they  do  not  estimate  by  their  own  talents,  but  by  the 
talents  of  some  one  else.  They  see  a  tower,  but  are  occupied 
only  with  measuring  its  shadow,  and  think  their  own  height 
(which  they  never  calculate)  is  to  cast  as  broad  a  one  over  the 
earth.  It  is  the  short  man  who  is  always  throwing  up  his  chin, 
and  is  as  erect  as  a  dart.  The  tall  man  stoops,  and  the  strong 
man  is  not  always  using  the  dumb-bells. 

Maltravers  had  not  yet,  then,  the  keen  and  sharp  yearning 
for  reputation;  he  had  not,  as  yet,  tasted  its  sweets  and  bitters — 
fatal  draught,  which  once  tasted,  begets  too  often  an  insatiable 
thirst !  neither  had  he  enemies  and  decriers  whom  he  was  de- 
sirous of  abashing  by  merit.  And  that  is  a  very  ordinary  cause 
for  exertion  in  proud  minds.  He  was,  it  is  true,  generally 
reputed  clever,  and  fools  were  afraid  of  him:  but  as  he  actively 
interfered  with  no  man's  pretensions,  so  no  man  thought  it 
necessary  to  call  him  a  blockhead.  At  present,  therefore,  it 
was  quietly  and  naturally  that  his  mind  was  working  its  legit- 
imate way  to  its  destiny  of  exertion.  He  began  idly  and  care- 
lessly to  note  down  his  thoughts  and  impressions  ;  what  was 
once  put  on  the  paper,  begot  new  matter;  his  ideas  became 


liRNEST   MALTRAVERS;  97 

more  lucid  to  himself ;  and  the  page  grew  a  looking-glass, 
which  presented  the  likeness  of  his  own  features.  He  began 
by  writing  with  rapidity,  and  without  method.  He  had  no 
object  but  to  please  himself,  and  to  find  a  vent  for  an  over- 
charged spirit;  and,  like  most  writings  of  the  young,  the  mattfer 
was  egotistical.  We  commence  with  the  small  nucleus  of  pas- 
sion and  experience,  to  widen  the  circle  afterwards  ;  and,  per- 
haps, the  most  extensive  and  universal  masters  of  life  and 
character  have  begun  by  being  egotists.  For  there  is,  in  a  man 
who  has  much  in  him,  a  wonderfully  acute  and  sensitive  per- 
ception of  his  own  existence.  An  imaginative  and  susceptible 
person  has,  indeed,  ten  times  as  much  life  as  a  dull  fellow,  "an' 
he  be  Hercules."  He  multiplies  himself  in  a  thousand  objects, 
associates  each  with  his  own  identity,  lives  in  each,  and  almost 
looks  upon  the  world  with  its  infinite  objects  as  a  part  of  his 
individual  being.  Afterwards,  as  he  tames  down,  he  withdraws 
his  forces  into  the  citadel,  but  he  still  has  a  knowledge  of,  and 
an  interest  in,  the  land  they  once  covered.  He  understands 
other  people,  for  he  has  lived  in  other  people — the  dead  and 
the  living ; — fancied  himself  now  Brutus  and  now  Caesar,  and 
thought  how  he  should  act  in  almost  every  imaginable  circum- 
stance of  life. 

Thus,  when  he  begins  to  paint  human  characters,  essentially 
different  from  his  own,  his  knowledge  comes  to  him  almost  in- 
tuitively. It  is  as  if  he  were  describing  the  mansions  in  which 
he  himself  has  formerly  lodged,  though  for  a  short  time.  Hence, 
in  gieat  writers  of  History — of  Romance — of  the  Drama — the 
gusto  W\\\\  which  they  paint  their  personages  ;  their  creations  ar6 
flesh  and  blood,  not  shadows  or  machines. 

Maltravers  was  at  first,  then,  an  egotist,  in  the  matter  of  his 
rude  and  desultory  sketches — in  the  manrier,  as  I  said  before, 
he  was  careless  and  negligent,  as  men  will  be  who  have  not  yet 
found  that  expression  is  an  art.  Still  those  wild  and  valueless 
essays— those  rapt  and  secret  confessions  of  his  own  heart — 
were  a  delight  to  him.  He  began  to  taste  the  transport,  the 
intoxication  of  an  author.  And  oh,  what  a  luxury  is  there  in  that 
first  love  of  the  Muse!  that  process  by  which  we  give  a  pal- 
pable form  to  the  long-intangible  visions  which  have  flitted  across 
us ; — the  beautiful  ghost  of  the  Ideal  within  us,  which  we  in- 
voke in  the  Gadara  of  our  still  closets,  with  the  wand  of  the 
simple  pen  !  • 

It  was  early  noon,  the  day  after  he  had  formed  his  acquain- 
tance with  the  De  Montaignes,  that  Maltravers  sat  in  his  favorite 
room  ; — the  one  he  had  selected  for  his  study,  from  the  many 


9t^,  ERJ<rEST.MAL,TR/iV£RS. 

chambersqf  his  large  ^nd  solitary  habitation.  He  sat  in  a  recess 
by  the  open  window,  which  looked  on  the  lake  ;  and  books  were 
scattered  on  his  t9.ble,  and  Maltravers  was  jotting  down  his 
criticisnds  on  what  he  read,  mingled  \yith  bis  impressions  on 
what  he  saw.  It  is  the  pleasantest  Jcind  of  composition — the 
note-book  of  a  man  who  studies  in  retirement,  who  observes  in 
society,  who  u>  all  things  can  admire  and  ifeel.  He  was  yet  en- 
gaged in  this  easy  task,  when  Cesarini  was  announced,  and  the 
young  brother  of  the  fair  Teresa  entered  his  apartment. 

*'  I  have  availed  myself  s9on  of  your.invitation,"  said  the  Italian. 

"I  acknowledge  the  compliment,"  jeplied  Maltravers,  pressing 
the  hand  shyly  held  put  to  him. 

.  •  "  I  see  ypu  have  been  w;riung^l.  thought  you  were  z^tfached 
to  literature.  I  read  it  in  your  countenaoce,  I  J\eard  it  |in  your 
voice,"  .said  Cesarini,  seatjipg  himself.,    .  '-  -.     '  ,  .   ;/  ,*^/  '  ' 

"  I  have  bepn  i<Jly  beguiling  ai,  very. idle  leisure,^  i,!:  i;^'  true," 
said  Maltravers.  .  ,,  .  ,,,(    -    ,-  : 

"  But  you  do  not  write  for  yourself  alone — -you  h'aye.  an  eye 
to  the  great  tribunals— Time  and  the  Public."  ".  ^"^''. 
i.."Not;SO,  I  assure  you  honestly,"  said  Maltravers,  shilling. 
"If  you  look  at  the  books  on  my  table,  you  will  see  that  tliey  are 
the  great  masterpieces  of  ancient  and  modern  lore — these'ai;'^ 
stjc.di?^  that-^iscourggejtyrps—j"  ,,j  ,^;  ^,,,  ^  ^  ^j,  .- "^^f,,,-."  ' 
-.  ";But  ini^pirp.them."  ,  ,,  ,,  ..•.,..'„!  J.-  V.';'^  r  ,  l"'  "t  • 
T  <io  not  think  so.  Models  .n? ay  form  our  taste  as  cfitics, 
but  npt  excite  us  to  be.  authors.  J.  fancy  that  pur  o\vn,emotions, 
our  own  sense  of  pur  destiny,  make  the  .great  lever  of  the  inert 
mattqr,  we  accumulate.  *  Look. in  thy  heart  and  write^'.said  ah 
old  English  writer,*  who  did  not,. however,  practice  ;Wna^h6 
pireached-.     And  you,  Signor— "    .  .   .         ,    ,     ,'\"' ,  '.'.''. ,i    '.) 

"Am  nothing, and  .would  be  a6iuething,"sai4  the- yo^'lS  "^^R 
shortly  and  bitterl)'.     :    ,  r  •>  ,      .      '     ...        ' 

"And  how  does  not  that  wish  rea.Uze  its  pbject  ?"       , 

"Merely  because  I  .am  an  Italian,*,'  said  Cesarini.  "  With  us 
there  i$  no  literary  public^no  -vast  readii;ig  class — we  have 
dilettanti  and  litera,ti,  and  students,  and.  even  authors;  but 
these  make  only  a  cpterie,  not  a,X)ublic..  I  have  vt'ritten,  I  have 
published  ;  but  no  qn^  listen ed  19:  me.  I  am  an  autiioif' without 
readers."  :  ,,  \v,-y.,\  fi^  j^    ■ "'  ,   ' ;-     ';'*%./ 

"  It  is  no  uncommpn  case  in  England,**  said  Maltrav^jrs. 

The  Italian  continued — "  I  thought  to  live  in  the  moyths  of 
men — to  stir  up  tlK?ughts  long  dumb — to,  awaken  the  strings  of 
the  old  lyre  !    Iri  vain.   Like  the  nightingale,T  sing  gnly  to  break 

I   *  Sit  ?hilip  Sidney, 


ER]srB^T  lyrAL.TRAvjjRs.  99 

my  heart,  , with  ^  false   ,^ijd,. melancholy  emulation  ^af^ other. 

notes.V,  ,      :      .  i  ,     '  ■    (.■£'.'.' 

"  There  are  epochs  in  all  countries,"  said  Maltravers,  gently, 
"  when  peculiar  veins  of  literature  are  out  of  vogue,  and  when 
no  genius,  can  bring  them  into  public  notice.  But  you  wisely 
said  there  were  two  tribunals — the  Public  and  Time.  Your 
great  Italian  historians  wrote  for  the  unborn — their  works  not 
even  published,  till  their  death.  That  indifference  to  living 
reputation  has  in  it,  to  "me,  something  of  the  sublime." 

",  I  cannot  imitate  them — and  they  were  not  poets,"  said  Cesa- 
rini,  sharply.  "  To  poets,  praise  is  a  necessary  aliment ;  neglect 
is  death." 

"  My  dear  Signor  Cesaripi,"  said  ,the  Englishman,  feelingly, 
"do  npt  give  way  to  these  thoughts.  There  ought  to  be  in  a 
healthful  ambition  the  stubborn  stuff  of  persevering  longevity  ; 
it  must  live  on,  and  hope  for  the  day  which  comes  slow  or  fast 
to, all  whose  labors  deserve  the  goal.  '  ,,         . 

"  But  perhaps  mine  .do.not.  - ,  I  sometimes  fear  so — it  is  a  hor- 
rid.thought."  '  .  ,     .  '. 

"You  are  very  young  yet,"  said  Maltravers, "  how  few  at  your 
age  ever  sicken  for  fame!  .Tbsit  first  step  is,^  perhaps,  the  half 
way  to  the  prize."  .   -.   !;,i:i;^,        il    V—      ^• 

I  am  not  sure  that  Ernest  thougnt  exactly  as  he  spoke  ;  but 
it  was  the  most  delicate  consolation  to  offer  to  a  man  whose 
abrupt  frankness  embarrassed  and  distressed  him*  The  young 
man  shook  his  head  despondingly.  Maltravers  tried  to  change 
the  subject — he  arose  and  moved  to  the  balcony,  which  over- 
hung the  lake — he  talked  of  the  weather — he  dwelt  on  the  ex- 
quisite scenery— he  pointed  to  the  minute  and  more  latent 
beauties  around,  with  the  eye  and  taste  of  one  who  had  looked 
at  Nature  in  her  details.  The^  poet  grew  more  animated  and 
cheerful ;  he  became  even  eloquent ;  he  quoted  poetry  and  he 
talked  it.  Maltravers  was  more  arad  rpore  interested  in  him.  He 
felt  a  curiosity  to  know  if  his  talent§  equalled  his  aspirations : 
he  hinted  to  Cesarini  his  wish  to  see  his-  compositions— it  was 
just  what  the  young  man  desired.  Poor  Cesarini !  It  was  much 
to  him  to  get  a  new  listener,  and  he  fondly  imagined  every 
honest  listener  must  be  a  warm  admirer. '  But  with  the  coyness 
of  his  caste,  he  affected  reluctance  and  hesitation  ;  he  dallied 
with  his  own  impatient  yearnings.  And  Maltravers,  to  smooth 
his  way,  proposed  an  excursion  on  the  lake. 

"  One  of  my  men  shall  row,"  said  he  ;  "  you  shall  recite  to  me, 
and  I  will  be  to  you  what  the  old  housekeeper  was  to  Moliere." 

Maltrav«;rs  had  deep  good  nature  wheje  he  was  touched, 


lOO  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

though  he  had  not  a  superfl\iity  bf  what  is  called  good-humor, 
which  floats  on  the  surface  and  smiles  on  all  alike.  He  had 
much  of  the  milk  of  human  kind'ness,  but  little  of  its  oil. 

The  jDoet  assented,  and  they  were  soon  upon  the  lake:  It  was 
a  sultry  day,  and  it  was  noon  ;  so  the  boat  crept  slowly  along 
by  the  shadow  of  the  shore,  and  Cesarini  drew  from  his  breast- 
pocket some  manuscripts  of  small  and  bekutiful  writing.  Who- 
does  not  know  the  pains  a  young  poet  takes  to  bestow  a  fair* 
dress  on  his  darling  rhymes!    '  ,'■;"''  ■'-''-'-       ■  '    ^  ''   '    '''-''-  '■'•J'" 

Cesarini  read  well  and  feelihg^y/'Everything^Was  fn  favor  of 
the  reader.  His  own  poetical  countenance — his  voice,  his  en- 
thusiasm, half-suppressed — the  pre-engaged  interest  of  the 
auditor — the  dreamy  loveliness  of  thfe  hour  and  scene — (for  there 
is  a  great  deal  as  to  time  in  these  things  ! )  Maltravers  listened 
intently.  It  is  very'difilicult  to  judge  of  the  exact  merit  of  poetry 
in  another  language;  even  when  we  know  that  language  well- 
so  much  is  there  in  the  untranslatable  magic  of  expression,  the 
little  subtleties  of  style.  i?ut  Maltravers,  fre^,  as  he  himself 
had  said,  from  the  study  pf  gjreat  and  original  writers,  could  not 
but  feel  that  he' was  listenitigto  feeble  though  melodious  medi- 
ocrity. It  was  the  poetry  of  words,  not  things.  He  thought  it 
^.ruel,  however,  to  be  hypercritical,  and  he  uttered  all  the  com- 
;nonplaces  of  eulogium  that  occurred  to  him.  The  young  man 
was  enchanted :  "And  yet,",  said  he  with  a  sigh,  "  I  ha;ve  no 
Public.  In  England  they  would  appreciate  me."  Alas,  in  Eng- 
land, at  that  moment,  there  were  five  hundred  poets  as  young,  as 
ardent,  and  yet  more  gifted,  whose  hearts  beat  with  the  same 
desire — whose  nerves  were  broken  by  the  san^e  disappointment. 

Maltravers  found  that  his  young  friend  would  not  listen  to  any 
judgment  not  purely  favorable.  The  archbishop  in  "Gil  Bias" 
was,  not  more  touchy  upon  anycriticism  that  was  not  panegyric. 
Maltravers  thought  it  a  bad  sign,  but' he  recollected  Gil  Bias,  • 
and  prudently  refrained  from'  bringing  on  himself  the  benevolent 
wish  of  "beaucoup  de  bonheur  et  un  peu  plus  de  bon  gotrt." 
When  Cesarini  had  finished  his  MS.,  he  was  anxious  to  con- 
clude the  excursion — he  longed  to  be  at  home,  and  think  over 
the  admiration  he  had  excited.  But  he  left  his  poems  with 
Maltravers,  and  gettiagori'shore  by  the. remains  of  Pliny's  villa, 
was  soon  out  of  sight.     ''',   "'  '•"''•-"'  ""  ';  '      '  '    •  '■■f^'/-'  ;'' 

Maltravers  that  evenitigread  the 'p6ems  with  "attention;  His 
first  opinion  was  confirmed.  The  young  man  wrote  without 
knowledge.  He  had  never  felt  the  passions  he  painted,  never 
been  in  the  situations  he  described.  There  was  no  originality  in 
him,  for  there  was  no^xperience ;  it  was  exquisite  "mechatiisra. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  lOl 

his  verse — nothing  more  !  It  miglit  well  deceive  him,  for  it  could 
not  but  flatter  his  ear — and  Tasso's  silver  march  rang  out  not  more 
musically  than  did  the  chiming  stanzas  of  Castruccio  Cesarini. 
The  perusal  of  this  poetry  and  his  conversation  with  the  poet 
threw  Maltravers  into  a  fit  of  deep  musing.  "This  poor  Cesa- 
rini may  warn  me  against  myself!  "  thought  he.  "Better  hew 
wood  and  draw  water,  than  attach  ourselves  devotedly  to  an  aft 
in  which  we  have  not  the  capacity  to  excel.  ...  It  is  to  throw 
away  the  healthful  objects  of  life  for  a  diseased  dream, — worse 
than  the  Rosicrucians,  it  is  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  all  human 
beauty  for  the  smile  of  a  sylphid,  that  never  visits  us  but  in  vis- 
ions." Maltravers  looked  over  hisown  compositions,  and  thrust 
them  into  the  fire.  Hfe  slept  ill  that  night.  His  pride  was  a  little  de- 
jected.    He  was  like  a  bieauty  who  has  seen  a  cfaricatu're  of  herself. 


CHAPTER  III. 

■J  nasi  z  .■„.  .:;. ', 

"  Stilt  fbllow  Sense,  of  every  aft  the  Soul." 

Pope  :    Moral  Essays — Essay  iv. 

Ernest  Maltravers  spent  much  of  his  time  with  the  family 
of  De  Montaigne.  There  is  no  period  of  life  in  which  we  are 
more  accessible  to  the  sentiment  of  friendship,  than  in  the  inter- 
vals of  moral  exhaustion  which  succeed  to  the  disappointments  of 
the  passions.  There  is,  then,  something  inviting  in  thosegentler 
feelings  which  keep  alive,  but  do  not  fever,  the  circulation  of 
the  affections.  Maltravers  looked  with  the  benevolence  of  a 
brother  upon  the  brilliant,  versatile,  and  restless  Teresa.  She 
was  tlie  last  person  in  the  world  he  could  have  been  in  love  with — 
for  his  nature,  ardent,  excitable,  yet  fastidious,  required  some- 
thing of  repose  in  the  manners  and  temperament  of  the  woman 
he  could  love,  and  Teresa  scarcely  knew  what  repose  was. 
Wliether  playing  with  her  children  (and  she  had  two  lovely  ones-^ 
the  eldest  six  years  old),  or  teasing  her  calm  and  meditative 
husband,  or  pouring  out  extempore  verses,  or  rattling  over  airs 
which  she  never  finished,  on  the  guitar  or  piano — or  making  ex- 
cursions on  the  lake — or,  in  short,  in  whatever  occupation  she 
appeared  as  the  Cynthia  of  theminute,she  was  always  gay  and  mo- 
bile— never  out  of  hurhor,  never  acknowledging  a  single  care  or 
cross  in  life — never  susceptible  of  grief,  save  when  her  brother's 
delicate  healthor  morbid  temper  saddened  her  atmosphere  of  sun- 
shine. Even  then,  the  sanguine  elasticity  of  her  mind  and  con- 
stitution quickly,  recovered  from  the  depression  ;  and  she  per- 


102  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

suaded  herself  that  Castruccio  would: grow  stronger  every  year, 
and  ripen  into  a  celebrated  and  happy  man.  Castruccio  him- 
self lived  what  romantic  poetasters  call  the  *'  life  of  a  poet."  He 
loved  to  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  distant  Alps— or  the  midnight 
moon  sleeping  on  the  lake.  He  spent  half  the  day,  and  often 
half  the  night,  in  solitary  rambles» weaving  his  airy  rhymes,  or 
indulging  his  glooniy  reveries,  and  he  thought  loneliness  made 
the  element  of  a  poet.  Alas!  Dante,  Alfieri,  even  Petrarch  miglit 
have  taught  him,  that  a  poet  must  have  intimate  knowledge  of 
men  as  well  as  mountains,  if  he  desire  to  become  the  Creator. 
When  Shelley,  in  one  of  his  prefaces,  boasts  of  being  familiar 
with  Alps  and  glaciers,  and  Heaven,  knows  what,  the  critical 
artist  cannot  help  wishing  that  he  had  been  rather  familiar  with 
fleet  Street  or  the  Strand.  Perhaps,  then,  that  remarlcable  geni^- 
us  might  have  been  more  capable  of  realizing  characters  of  flesh 
and  blood, and  have  composed  corporeal  and  consummate  wholes, 
not  confused  and  glittering  fragments. 

Though  Ernest  was  attached  to  Teresa  and  deeply  interested 
in  Castruccio,  it  was  De  Montaigne  for  whom  he  experienced 
the  higher  and  graver  sentiment  of  esteem.  Tiiis  Frenchman 
was  one^acquainted  with  a  much  larger  world,  than  that  of  the 
Coteries.  He  had  served  in  the  army,  been  employed  with'  dis- 
tinction in  civic  affairs,  and  was  of  that  robust  and  healthful 
moral  constitution  which  can  bear  with  every  variety  of  social 
life,  and  estimate  calmly  the  balance  of  our  moral  fortunes. 
Trial  and  experience  had  left, him  that  true  philosopher  who  is 
too  wise  to  be  an  optimist,  too  just  to  be  a  misanthrope.  He 
enjoyed  life  with  sober  judgment,  and  pursued,  the  path  most 
suited  to  himself,  without  dtjclaring  it  to  be  the  best  for  others. 
He  was  a  little  hard,  p,erhaps,  upon  the  errors  that  belong  to 
weakness  and  conceit — -not:  to  those  that  have  their  source  in 
great  natures. or  generous  thoughts.,  Among  his  characteristics 
was  a  profound  admiration  for  England.  His  own  country  he 
half  loved,  yet  half  disdained.  The  ijnpetuosity  and  levity  of 
his  compatriots  displeased  his  sober  and  dignified  notions.  He 
could  not  forgiye  them  .{he  was  wont  to  say)  for  having  made 
the  two  grand  exp.erimehts  of  popular  revolution  and  military 
despotism  in  vain.  Jle  synVp^thjzed  neither  with  the  young  en- 
thusiasts who  desired  a  republic,  without  well  knowing  the  nu- 
merous strata  of  habits  and  customs  upon  which  that  fabric,  if 
designed  for  perrnanence,  should  be  built — nor  with  the  unedu- 
cated and  fierce,  chivalry  that  longed  for  a  restoration  of  the 
warrior  empire-^^norwith  the  dpU  and  arragant  bigots  who  con- 
nected all  ideas  of  order  and  government  with  the  ill-starred  and 


ERNfeSt   MALTRAVERS.  I03 

worn-out  dynasty  of  tlie  Bourbons.  In  fact,  good  sense  was 
with  hiin  \\\q  piincipiuin  et  fans  of  all  theories  and  all  practice. 
And  it  was  this  quality  that  attached  him  to  the  English.  His 
philosophy  on  this  head  was  rather  curious. 

"Good  sense,"  said  he  one  day  to  Maltravers,  as  they  wei*e 
walking, to  and  fro  at  De  Montaigne's  villa,  by  the  margin  of  the 
lake,  "is  riot  a  merely  intellectual  attribute.  It  is  rather  the  re- 
sult of  a  just  equilibrium  of  all  our  faculties,  spiritual  and  moral. 
The  dishonest,  or  the  toys  of  their  own  passions,  may  have  geni- 
us ;  but  they  rarely  if  ever,  have  good  sense  in  the  conduct  of 
life.  They  may  often  win  large  prizes,  but  it  is  by  a  game  of 
chance,  not  skilL  But  the  man  whom  I  perceive  walking  a:n 
honorable  and  upright  career^ — ^just  to  others,  and  also  to  him- 
self (for  we  owe  justice  to  ourselves — to  the  care  of  our  fortunes, 
our  character; — ^to  the  management  of  our  passions) — is  a  mOre 
dignified  representative  of  his  Maker  than  the  riiere  child  of  ge- 
nius. Of  such  a  man,  we  say,  he  has  good  sense;  yes, but  lie 
has  also  integrity,  self-respect,  and  self-denial.  A  tboUSand 
trials  which  his  sense  braves  and  conquers,  are  temptations  als6 
to  his  probity — his  temper— in  a  word,  to  all  the  many  sides  of 
his  complicated  nature.  Now,  I  do  not  think  he  will  have  this 
good  sense  any  more  than  a,  diunka,rd  will  have  strong  nerves, 
unless  he  be  in  t1ie  constant  habit  of  keepinghis  iiiihd  clear  from 
the  intoxication  of  envy,  vanity,  and  the  various  emotions  that 
dupe  and  mislead  us.  Good  sense  is  not,  therefore,  an  abstract 
quality  or  a  solitary  talent  ;,  but  it  is  tlie  natural  result  of  the 
habit  of  thinking  justly,  and  'therefore  seeing  clearly,  and  is  as 
different  from  the  sagacity  that. belongs  to  a  diplomatist  or  at- 
torney, as  the  philosophy  of  Socrates  differed  from  the  rhetoric 
of  Gorgias.  As  a  mass  of  individual  excellencies  make  up  this 
attribute  in  a  man,  so  a  riiass  of  such  ■men  thus  characterizecl 
give  a  character  to  a  nation.  Your  Englartd  is,  therefore,  re- 
nowned for  its  good  sense  ;  but  it  is  renowned  also  for  the  ex- 
cellencies which  accompany  strong  sense  in  an  individual,  high 
honesty  and  faith  in  its  dealings,  a  warm  love  of  justice  and  fair 
play,  a  general  freedom  from  the  violent  crimes  common  ph.the 
Continent,  and  the  energetic  perseverance  in  enterprise  Once  com- 
menced, which  results  from  a  bold  and  healthful  disposition." 
"Our  Wars,  our  Debt — "  began  Maltravers.   '       '  '"I 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  De  Montaigne,  "  I  am  speaking  of 
your  People,  not  of  your  Government.  A  government  is  often 
a  very  unfair  representative  of  a  nation.  But  eveii  in  the  wars 
you  allude  to,  if  you  examine,  you  will  generally  find  them  origi- 
nate in  the  love  of  justice  (which  is  the  basis  of  good  sense)j 


1P4  tRNEST    MALTRAVERS, 

not  from  any  insane  desire  of  conquest  or  glory.  A  man,  how- 
ever sensible,  must  have  a  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  a  great  nation 
cannot  be  a  piece  of  selfish  clockwork.  Suppose  you  and  I  are 
sensible,  prudent  men,  and  we  see  in  a  crowd  one  violent  fellow 
unjustly  knocking  another  on  the  head,  we  should  be  brutes, 
not  men,  if  we  did  not  intei'fere  with  the  savage  ;  but  if  we 
thrust  ourselves  into  a  crowd  with  a  large  bludgeon,  and  belabor 
our  neighbors,  with  the  hope  that  the  spectators  would  cry,' See 
what  a  bold,  strong  fellow  that  is  ! ' — then  we  should  be  only 
playing  the  madman  from  the  motive  of  the  coxcomb.  I  fear 
you  will  find,  in  the  military  history  of  the  French  and  English, 
the  application  of  my  parable." 

"Yet  still,  I  confess,  there  is  a  gallantry  anrf a  noblemari-like 
and  Norman  spirit  in  the  whole  French  nation,  which  make  me 
forgive  many  of  their  excesses,  and  think  they  are  destined  for 
great  purposes,  when  experience  shall  have  sobered  their  hot 
blood.  Some  nations,  as  some  men,  are  slow  in  arriving  at  ma- 
turity ;  others  seem  men  in  their  cradle.  The  English,  thanks 
to  their  sturdy  Saxon  origin  elevated,  h6t  depressed,  by  the  Nor- 
man infusion,  never  were  children.  The  difference  is  striking, 
when  you  regard  the  representatives  of  both  in  their  great  men— - 
whether  writers  or  active  citizens."  ^t:...,  ,.       :..     ,. 

"Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "in  Milton  an'd^tMmw^'  ttiere 
is  nothing  of  the  brilliant  child.  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  Vol- 
taire or  Napoleon.  Even  Richelieu,  the  manliest  of  our  states- 
men, had  so  much  of  the  French  infant  in  him  as  to  fancy  him- 
self a.beau  gar(on,  a  gallant,  a  Wit,  and  a  poet.  As  for  the  Ra- 
cine school  of  writers,  they  were  not  out  of  the  leading-strings 
of  imitation — cold  copyists  of  a  pseudo-classic — in  which  they 
saw  the  form,  and  never  caught  the  spirit.  What  so  little  Ro- 
man,Greek,  Hebrew,  as  their  Roman, Greek,and  Hebrew  dramas? 
Your  rude  Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar — even  his  Troilus  and 
Cressida — have  the  ancient  spirit,  precisely  as  they  are  imitations 
of  nothing  ancient.  But  our  Frenchmen  copied  the  giant  ima- 
ges of  old,  just  as  the. school-girl  copies  a  drawing,  by  holding 
it  up  to  the  window,  and  tracing  the  lines  on  silver  paper." 

"But  your  new  writers — De  Stael — Chateaubriand?"* 

"  I  find  no  other  fault  with  the  sentimentalists,"  answered  the 
severe  critic,  "than  that  of  exceeding  feebleness — ^they  have  no 
bone  and  muscle  in  their  genius — all  is  flaccid  and  rotund  in 
its  feminine  symmetry.  They  seem  to  think  that  vigor  consists 
in  florid   phrases  and  little   aphorisms,  and  delineate    all    the 

*  At  the  time  of  this  conversation,  the  later  school,  adorned  by  Victor  Hugo,  who,  with 
notions  of  art  elaborately  wrong,  b  still  a  man  of  extraordinary  genius,  had  not  risen  into  iu 
present  equivocal  reputation. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I05 

mighty  tempests  of  the  human  heart  with  the  polished  pretti- 
ness  of  a  miniature-painter  on  ivory.  No! — these  two  are  chil- 
dren of  another  kind — affected,  tricked  out,  well-dressed  chil- 
dren— very  clever,  very  precocious — but  children  still.  Their 
whinings,  and  their  sentimentalities,  and  their  egotism,  and 
their  vanity,  cannot  interest  masculine  beings  who  know  what 
life  and  its  stern  objects  are." 

"  Your  brother-in-law,"  said  Maltravers  with  a  slight  smile, 
"  must  find  in  you  a  discouraging  censor." 

"My  poor  Castruccio,"  replied  De  Montaigne,  with  a  half- 
sigh  ;  "he  is  one  of  those  victims  whom  I  believe  to  be  more 
common  than  we  dream  of — men  whose  aspirations  are  above 
their  powers.  I  agree  with  a  great  German  writer,  that  in  the 
first  walks  of  Art  no  man  has  a  right  to  enter,  unless  he  is  con- 
vinced that  he  has  strength  and  speed  for  the  goal.  Castruccio 
might  be  an  amiable  member  of  society,  nay,  an  able  and  use- 
ful man,  if  he  would  apply  the  powers  he  possesses  to  the  re- 
wards they  may  obtain.  He  has  talent  enough  to  win  him 
reputation  in  any  profession  but  that  of  a  poet." 

"Butautliors  who  obtain  immortality  are  not  always  first  rate." 

"  First-rate  in  their  way,  I  suspect  ;  even  if  that  way  be  false 
or  trivial.  They  must  be  connected  with  the  history  of  their 
literature  ;  you  must  be  able  to  say  of  them,  *  In  this  school,  be 
it  bad  or  good,  they  exerted  such  and  such  an  influence';  in  a 
word,  they  must  form  a  link  in  the  great  chain  of  a  nation's 
authors,  which  may  be  afterwards  forgotten  by  the  superficial, 
but  without  which  the  chain  would  be  incomplete.  And  thus, 
if  not  first-rate  for  all  time,  they  have  been  first-rate  in  their 
own  day.  But  Castruccio  is  only  the  echo  of  others — he  can 
neither  found  a  school  nor  ruin  one.  Yet  this  "  (again  added 
De  Montaigne  after  a  pause) — "  this  melancholy  malady  in  my 
brother-in-law  would  cure  itself,  perhaps,  if  he  were  not  Italian. 
In  your  animated  and  bustling  country,  after  sufficient  disap- 
pointment as  a  poet,  he  would  glide  into  some  other  calling, 
and  his  vanity  and  craving  for  effect  would  find  a  rational  and 
manly  outlet.  But  in  Italy,  what  can  a  clever  man  do,  if  he  is 
not  a  poet,  or  a  robber  ?  If  he  love  his  country,  that  crime  is 
enougii  to  unfit  him  for  civil  employment,  and  his  mind  cannot 
stir  a  step  in  the  bold  channels  of  speculation  without  falling 
foul  of  the  Austrian  or  the  Pope.  No  ;  the  best  I  can  hope  for 
Castruccio  is,  that  he  will  end  in  an  antiquary,  and  dispute  about 
ruins  with  the  Romans.     Better  that  than  mediocre  poetry." 

Maltravers  was  silent,  and  thoughtful.  Strange  to  say,  De 
Montaigne's  views  did  not  discourse  his  own  new  ^nd  secret 


ipi>;  ERI^EST    ;kIALTRAVERS. 

ardor  for  intellectual  triumphs  ;  not  because  he  felt  that  he  was 
now  able  to  achieve  them,  but  because  he  felt  the  iron  of  his 
own  nature,  and  knew  that  a  man  who  has  iron  in  his  nature 
must  ultimately  hit  upon  someway  of  shaping  the  metal  into  use. 

'I'he  host  and  guest  were  now  joined  by  Castruccio  himself — 
silent  and  gloomy  as  indeed  he  usually  was,  especially  in  the 
presence  of  De  Montaigne,  with  whom  he  felt  his  "self-love" 
wounded  ;  for  though  he  longed  to  despise  his  hard  brpther-in- 
law,  the  young  poet  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  De 
Montaigne  was  not  a  man  to  be  despised. 

Maltravers  dined  with  the  De  Montajgnes,  and  spent  the 
evening  with  them.  He  could  not  but  observe  that  Castruc- 
cio, who  affected  in  his  verses  the  softest  sentiments-— who  was, 
indeed,  by  original  nature,  tender  and  gentle — had  become  so 
completely  warped  by  that  worst  of  all  mental  vices— the  eter- 
nal pondering  on  his  own  excellencies,  talents,  mortifications, 
and  ill-usage,  that  he  never  contributed  to  the  gratification  of 
those  around  him  ;  he  had  none  of  the  little  arts  of  social  be- 
nevolence, none  of  the  playful  youth  of  disposition  which  iisu- 
ally  belongs  to  the  good-hearted,  and  for  which  men  of  a  master- 
genius,  however  elevated  their  studies,  however  stern  or  reserved 
to  the  vulgar  world,  are  commpnly  noticeable  amidst  the  friends 
they  love,  or  in  the  home  they  adorn.  Occupied  with  one  dream, 
centred  in  self,  the  young  Italian  was  sullen  and  morose  to  all 
who  did  not  sympathize  with  his  own  morbid  fancies.  From 
the  children — the  sister— the  friend— the  whole  living  eartb,  he 
fled  to  a  poem  on  Solitude,  or  stanzas  upon  Fame.  ^'laltravers 
said  to  himself,  "I  will  never  be  an  author — ^^I  will  never  sigh 
for,  renow|ir--if  I  ,fini,,tQ  purclif  se  sljad.ow^  at  such  a  price  J  ** 


CHAPTER viy. 

"It  cannot  be  too  deeply  impressed  on  the  mind,  that  application  is  the 
price  to  be  paid  for  mental  acquisitions,  and  -it  is  as  absurd  to  expect  them 
without  it  as  to  hope  for  a  harvest  where  we  have  sown  nO  seed."  ;  , 

,  "  In  everything  we  do,  we  may  be  possibly  laying  a  train  of  consequences, 
the  operation  of  which  m&y  terminatp  only  with  our  existence." 

]?aile;y  .: '  Essays  oti  thi  /formation  and  Publication  if  Opiniottfi:  '  '■•'• 

;  TiMP  passed  and  autumn  was  far  adyanced  to\Yard  winter ; 
still  Maltravers  lingered  at  Como.  He  saw  littl^  of  any  other 
family  than  that  of  the  .pe  Montaignes  ;  and  the  grea.ter  part 
of;  his  time  waS;  necessarily  spet^t  a^qne.  His  occiipaUpti  cqn- 
tin\ie4  tp  b?  th^t  Qf  making  expej iajent?  of  his  9>yR  pQweVs,,?^^4- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I07 

these  gradually  became  bolder  and  more  comprehensive.  He 
took  care,  however,  not  to  show  his  "Diversions  of  Como  "  to 
his  new  friends  :  he  wanted  no  audience — he  dreamt  of  no 
Public;  he  desired  merely  to  practise  his  own  mind.  Hebe- 
came  aware,  of  hi&  own  accord,  as  he  proceeded,  that  a  man 
can  neither  study  witli  much  depth,  nor  compose  with  much 
art,  unless  he  has  some  definite  object  before  him  ;  in  the  first, 
some  one  branch  of  knowledge  to  master  :  in  the  last,  some  one 
conception  to  work  out.  Maltravers  fell  back  upon  his  boyish 
passion  for  metaphysical,  speculation  ;  but  with  what  different 
results  did  he  now  wrestle  with  the'  subtle  schoolmen, — now 
tliat  he  had  practically  known  mankind  !  How  insensibly  new 
lights  broke  in  upon  him,  as. he  threaded  the  labyrinth  of  cause 
i\nd  effect,  by  which  we  seek  to  arrive  at  that  curious  and  bi- 
form  monster — our  own  nature.  His  mind  becarne  saturated, 
as  it  were,  with  these  profound  studies  and  meditations  ;  and 
when  at  length  he  paused  from  them,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  not 
been  living  in  solitude,  but  had  gone  through  a  process  of  action 
in  the  busy  \yorld  :  somuch  juster,  somuch  clearer,  had  become 
his  knowledge  of  himself  and  others.  Biit  though  these  re- 
searches colored,  they  did  not  limit  his  intellectual  pursuits. 
Poetry  and  tlie  lighter  letters  became  to  him,  not  merely  a  re- 
lp.xat.ion,  but  a  critical  and  thoughtful  study.  He  delighted  to 
penetrate  into  the  causes  that  have  made  the  airy  webs  spun  by 
men's  fancies  so  permanent  and  powerful  in  their  influence  over 
the  hard,  work-day  world.  And  what  a  lovely  scene — what  a 
sky^ — what  3.n  air  wherein  to  commence  the  projects  of  that 
ambition  which  seeks  to  establish  an  empire  in  the  hearts  and 
memories  of  mankind  !  I  believe  it  has  a  great  effect  on  the 
future  labors  of  a  writer, — the  place  where  he  first  dreams  that 
it  is  his  destiny  to  write  !  .     '  ' 

From  these  pursuits  Ernest  was  aroused  by  another  letter 
from  Cleveland.  His  kind  friend  had  been  disappointed  and 
vexed  that  Maltravers  did  not  follow  his  advice,  and  retutri  to 
England.  He  had  shown  his  displeasure  by  hot  answering 
Ernest's  letter  of  excuses,  but  lately  he  had  been  seized  with  a 
dangerous  illness  which  reduced  hirh  to  the  brink  of  the  grave  ; 
and  with  a  heart  softened  by  the  exhaustion  of  the  frame,  he 
now  wrote  in  the  first  moments  of  convalescence  to  Maltravers, 
informing  him  of  his  attack  and  danger,  and  once  more  urging 
him  to  return.  The  'thought  that  Cleveland— the  dear,  kind,, 
gentle- guardian  of  his  youth — had  been  near  unto  death,  that 
he  might  never  more  have  hung  upon  that  fostering  hand,  nor 
r^plieid  to  Jihat  paternal. vOice^  snigtig  Ernest,  with' teirror  aiid' re-.' 


lo8  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

morse.  He  resolved  instantly  to  return  to  England,  and  made 
his  preparations  accordingly. 

He  went  to  take  leave  of  the  De  Montaignes.  Teresa  was 
trying  to  teach  her  first-born  to  read  ;  and,  seated  by  the  open- 
window  of  the  villa  in  her  heat,  not  precise,  dishabille — with  the 
little  boy's  delicate,  yet  bold  and  healthy  countenance  look- 
ing up  fearlessly  at  hers,  while  she  was  endeavoring  to  initiate 
him — half  gravely,  half  laughingly — into  the  mysteries  of  mono- 
syllables, the  pretty  boy  and  the  fair  young  mother  made  a  de- 
lightful picture.  De  Montaigne  was  reading  the  Essays  of  his 
celebrated  namesake,  in  whom  he  boasted,  I  know  not  with 
what  justice,  to  claim  an  ancestor.  From  time  to  time  he  looked 
from  the  page  to  take  a  gla,nce  at  the  progress  of  his  heir,  and 
keep  up  with. the  march  of  intellect.  But  hs  did  not  interfere 
with  the  maternal  lecture ;  he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that 
there  is  a  kind  of  sympathy  between  a  child  and  a  mother, 
which  is  worth  all  the  grave  superiority  of  a  father  in  making 
learning  palatable  to  young  years.  He  was  far  too  clever  a  man 
not  to  despise  all  the  systems  of  forcing  infants  Under  knowl- 
edge-frames, which  are  the  present  fashion.  He  knew  that 
philosophers  never  made  a  greater  mistake  than  in  insisting  so 
much  upon  beginning  abstract  education  from  the  cradle.  It 
is  quite  enough  to  attend  to  an  infant's  temper,  and  correct 
that  cursed  predilection  for  telling  fibs  which  falsifies  all  Dr. 
Reid's  absurd  theory  about  innate  propensities  to  truth,  and 
makes  the  prevailing  epidemic  of  the  nursery.  Above  all,  what 
advantage  ever  compensates  for  hurting  a  child's  hea.lth  or  break- 
ing his  spirit  ?  Never  let  him  learn,  more  than  you  can  help  it,  the 
crushing  bitterness  of  fear.  A  bold  child  who  looks  you  in  the 
face,  speaks  the  truth,  and  shames  the  devil  ;  that  is  the  stuff 
of  which  to  make  good  and  brave — ay,  and  wise  men  ! 

Maltravers  entered,  unannounced,  into  this  charming  fa:mily 
party,  and  stood  unobserved  for  a  few  moments,  by  the  open 
door.  The  little  pupil  was  the  first  to  perceive  him,  and,  for- 
getful of  monosyllables,  ran  to  greet  him;  for  Maltrdvers,  though' 
gentle  rather  than  gay,  was  a  favorite  with  children,  and  his  fair, 
calm,  gracious  countenance  did  more  for  him  with  therri  than  if, 
like  Goldsmith's  Burchell,  his  pockets  had  been  filled  with  gin- 
gerbread and  apples.  "  Ah,  fie  on  you,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  cried 
Teresa,  rising;  "you  have  blown  away  all  the  chat-acters T have, 
been  endeavoring  this  last  hour  to  imprint  upon  sand." 

"Not  so,  Signora,"  said  Maltravers,  seating  himself,  and  plac- 
ing the  child,  on  his  knee;  "rpy  young  friend  will  set  to  work 
again  with  a  greater  gusto  after  this  little  br^ak  in  upon  his  labots.**' 


KRNEST   MAtTRAVERS.  lOp 

"You  will;  Stay  with.  US  all  day,  I  hope?"  said  De  Mon- 
taigne. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Maltravers,  "  I  am  come  to  ask  permission  to 
do  so,  for  to-morrow  I  depart  for  England." 

" Is  it  possible ?"  cried  Teresa.  "How  sudden!  How  we 
shall  miss  you!  Oh!  don't  go.  But  perhaps  you  have  bad  news 
from  England." 

"  I  have  news  that  summon  me  hence,"  replied  Maltravers;  "my 
guardian  and  second  father  has  been  dangerously  ill.  I  am 
uneasy  about  him,  and  reproach  myself  for  having  forgotten  him 
so  long  in  your  seductive  society." 

**I  am  really  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  De  Montaigne,  with 
greater  warmth  in  his  tones  than  in  his  words.  "  I  hope  heartily 
we  shall  meet  again  soon;  you  will  come,  perhaps,  to  Paris?" 

"Probably,"  said  Maltravers;   "and  you,  perhaps,  to  Eng- 
land?" 
i    "  Ah,  how  I  should  like  it! "  exclaimed  Teresai. 

"No,  you  would  not,"  said  her  husband;  "you  w^ould  not  like 
England  at  all;  you  would  call  it //-zV/<f  beyond  measure.  It  is 
one  of  those  countries  of  which  a  native  should  be  proud,  but 
which  has  no  amusement  for  a  stranger,  precisely  because  full  of 
such  serious  and  stirring  occupations  to  the  citizens.  The  pleas- 
antest  countries  for  strangers  are  the  worst  countries  for  natives 
{witness  Italy),  a.nd  zit'cg  7>ersd." 

Teresa  shook  her  dark  curls,  and  would  not  be  convinced. 

"  And  where  is  Castruccio  ?"  asked  Maltravers. 

"  In  his  boat  on  the  lake,"  replied  Teresa.  "  He  will  be  in- 
consolable at  your  departure;  you  are  the  only  person  he  can 
understand,  or  who  understands  him;  the  only  person  in  Italy — 
I  had  almost  said,  in  the  whole  world,' :  •/   ' 

"  Well,  we  shall  meet  at  dinner,"  said  Ernest;  "meanwhile, 
let  me  prevail  on  you  to  accompany  me  to  the  Pliniana.  I  wish 
to  say  farewell  to  that  crystal  spring." 

Teresaj  delighted  at  any  excursion,  readily  consented. 
n""And  I  too,  mamma,"  cried  the  child;  "and  my  little  sister?" 
i;  ''^Oh,  certainly,"  said  Maltravers,  speaking  for  the  parents. 

So  the  party  was  soon  ready,  and  they  pushed  off  in  the  clear 
genial  hoon-tide  (for  November  in  Italy  is  as  early  as  September 
in  the  North),  across  the  sparkling  and  dimpled  waters.  The 
children  prattled,  and  the  grown-up  people  talked  on  a  thousand 
matters.  It  was  a  pleasant  day,  that,  last  day  atComo!  For  the 
farewells  of  friendship  have  indeed  something  of  the  melancholy, 
but  not  the  anguish,  of  those  of  love.  Pei^haps  it  would  be  bet- 
ter if  we  could  get:  rid  of  love  altogether.     Life  would  go  on 


no  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

smoother  and  happier  without  it.  Friendship  is  the  wirie  of  ex- 
istence, but  love  is  the  dram-drinking.  •-' 
*  When  they  returned,  they  found  Castruccio  seated  on  the 
iawn.  He  did  not  appear  so  much  dejected  at  the  prospect  of 
Ernest's  departure  as  Teresa  had  anticipated;  for  Castruccio 
Cesarini  was  a  very  jealous  man,  and  he  had  lately  been  chagrined 
and  discontented  with  seeing  the  delight  that  the  DeMontaignes 
took  in  Ernest's  society. 

"Why  is  this?"  he  often  asked  himself;  "why  are  they  more 
pleased  with  this  stranger's  society  than  mine  ?  My  ideas. are  as 
fresh,  as  original;  I  have  as  much  genius,  yet  even  my  dry  brother* 
in-law  allows'^/V  talents,  and' predicts  that  ^^  will  be  an  eminent 
man!  while/— ^No! — one  is  liot  a  prophet irjone's  own  country!" 

Unhappy  young  man!  his  mind  bore  all  the  rank  weeds  of 
the  morbid  poetical  character,  and  the  -weeds  choked  up  the 
flowers  that  the  soil,  properly  cultivated,  should  alone  bear.  Yet 
that  crisis  in  life  awaited  Castruccio,  in  which  a  sensitive  and 
poetical  man  is  made  or  marred;  the  crisis  in  which  a  sentiment 
is  replaced  by  the  passions— in  which  love  for  some  real  object 
gathers  the  scattered  rays  of  the  heart  into  a  focus:  out  of  that 
ordeal  he  might  pass  a  purer  and  manlier  being — so  Maltravers 
often  hoped.  Maltravers  then  little  thought  how  closely  con-r^ 
nected  witli  his  own  fate  was  to  be  thatpassage  in  the  history  of 
the  Italian!  Castruccio  contrived  totake.MaItrayet"s  aside, and 
as  he  led  the  Englishman  through  the  wood  that  backed  the 
mansion,  he  said,  with  &ome' embarrassment,'  *' Yougov  I /sup- 
pose, to  London  ? "  ;  .;.  .  '  .i  .! 
:/■  I  shall  paqs  through  it — can.!  execMte. any  commission  Iop 

yOVL?'A]  ..         ..-.iu-  vr\.'         1    ,;Mi         :^:!i  ■       ■  .     <;,V/    M^   ..   .:.  I.'      !•     .; 

"  Why,  yes;  my  poems  l-r+Iithfnk  of  publishing  thetnin  E-ng-l 
laiid:  your  Aristocracy  cultivate  the  Italian  lettiers;  andiperhaps 
1  may  be  read  by  the  fair  and  noble-'^ifia^  is  theproper  audience 
of  poets.     For  the  vulgar  herd-^— I  disdain  iti"       ..        -j  .         ■--' 

"  My  dear  Castruccio,  I  will  undertake  to  seeyour  poems ptib- 
lished  in  London,  if  yOu  wish  it';  but  do  not  be  sanguiine.'  In 
England  we  read  little  poetry,  even,  in  our  owri  language,  >sihd 
we  are  shamefully  indifferentto  foreign  iiterature.''^.^';    ;|j    -: 

"Yes,  foreign  literature  gefierally,. and' you  aT^iight;»fbliti»jB 
poetns  are  of  another  kind..  They  must  command  att^tit>nJ  ini 
a:  polished  iandiintelligent  circle."  ■      ..    .''      ;.  .1  ■'*'.:  n-    '..'■    •■> 

"Well,  let  the  experiment  be  tried;  you  tan  iet  mfe  haveithei 
poems  when  we  part.'v'  .•..•■'•;,,'  :.»  -  •  v; 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Castruccio,  ina'/oyoub  tone,  pressing  his 
friend's  hand;  and  for  the  rest  of  .lihi  evening,  he 'seemed  an; 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  Ill 

0  altered  being;  he  even  caressed  the  children,  and  did  not  sneer 
"  at  the  grave  conversation  of  hisbrotherrinrlaw.  ■ 

When  Maltravers  rose  to  depart,  Castriiccio  gave  him  the 
packet';  and  then,  utterly  engrossed  with  his  own  imagined  futur- 
ity of  fame,  vanished  from  the  room  to  indulge  his  reveries.  He 
cared  no'longer  for  Maltravers — he  had  put  him  to  use — he  could 
not  be  sorry  for  his  departure,  for  that  departurewas  the- Avatar 
of  His  appearance  to  a  new  world! 

A  small  dull  r.-^n  was  falling,  though,  at  intervals,  the  stars 
broke  through  the  unsettled  clo.uds,  and  Teresa  did  not  there- 
fore   venture    from    the    house ;    she    presented  her  smooth 
cheek  to  the  young  guest  to  salute,  pressed  him  by  the  hand, 
and  bade  him  adieu  with  tears  in  her  eyes..    "Ah!'"  said  she, 
,j'' when  we  meet  again,  I  hope  you  will  ibe  married— I  shall  love 
-jyour  wife  dearly.  There  is  no  happiness  like  marriageand  home!" 
band  she  looked  with  ingenuous  tenderness  at  De  Montaigne. 
^/    Maltravers  sighed — ^his  thoughts  flew, back  to  Alice.     Where 
now  was  that  lone  a,nd  friendless  girlyiwhose  innocent  love  had 
once  brightened  a  home  for  /«w  ^     He  answered  by  a  vague 
and  mechanical  commonplace,  arid  quitted  the  room  with  De 
Montaigne,  who  insisted  on  seeing  himdepatt.     Asthey.neared 
the  lakev  De  Montaigne  broke  the  silence.        ■  .r  ;.i  .,1^  . 

..   "My  dear  Maltravers,"  he  said,  vviith  a  serious  aiwi  thoughtftil 
<Qifectioja  in  his  voice,  "we  maynot  meet  again  for  years,   I  have 
a ^arm  interest  in  your  JiapijinefTS  and-  careecf^yes,;^«r<f^r-rrr 
repeat  the  word.     I  do  noi  habitually,  seek  to  inspire  young  men 
with  ambition.     Enough  for  most  of  them  toi  be  good  and  hon- 
orable citizens.     But  in  your  case  it  is  different.     I  see  in  you 
the  earnest  and   meditative,  not  rash   aiid   overweening  youth, 
which  i&  usually  productive  of  a  distinguished  manhood.  Your 
•■■"mmd  is'not  yet  settled,  it  is  true;  but  it  is  fast  becoming  clear 
Jfand  mellow  from  the  first  ferment  of  boyish  dreant sand  passions. 
):  You  have  everything  in  your  favor, — competence,  birth,  connec* 
Ltion;  and,  above  all,  you  are  an  Englishman! ;  You  have  a  mighty 
stage,  on  which,  it  is  true,  you  cannot  establish  riifootin.g!  with- 
out merit  and  without  labor-^— so  much  thebetter;  in  which  strong 
and  resolute  rivals  will:  urge  you  ori  to  emulation,  and  then  eom- 
petition.' will  task  your  keenest  powers.     Think  what  a  glorious 
fateit  is^to  have  an  influence  6nthevast,  but  ever-growing  mind 
of  such  a  country,— to,  feel,. when  yoil  retire  from  the  busy  scene, 
that  you  have  played  an  ftnforgotten  part— that  you  have,  been 
the  medium,  under  God's  greatwill,  of  .circulating  new  ideas 
throughout  the  world — of  upholding  the  glorious  pcjesthood  f)i 
the  Hgtnest  and  the  Beautifai;;   Thisis  the-^Jtriifitijjrvil^itioni;  jthe 


tti  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

desire  of  mere  personal  notoriety  is  vanity,  not  ambition.  Do 
not  then  be  lukewarm  or  supine.  The  trait  I  have  observed  in 
you,"  added  the  Frenchman,  with  a  smile,  "  most  prejudicial  to 
your  chances  of  distinction  is,  that  you  are  /w  philosophical,  too 
apt  to  cut  bono  all  the  exertions  that  interfere  with  the  indolence 
of  cultivated  leisure.  And  you  must  not  suppose,  Maltravers, 
than  an  active  career  will  be  a  path  of  roses.  At  present  you 
have  no  enemies;  but  the  moment  you  attempt  distinction,  you 
will  be  abused,  calumniated,  reviled.  You  will  be  shocked  at 
the  wrath  you  excite,  and  sigh  for  your  old  obscurity,  and  con- 
sider, as  Franklin  has  it,  that  'you  have  paid  too  dear  for  your 
whistle.'  But,  in  return  for  individual  enemies,  what  a  noble 
recompense  to  have  made  the  Public  itself  your  friend;  perhaps 
even  Prosperity  your  familiar!  Besides,"  added  De  Montaigne, 
with  almost  a  religious  solemnity  in  his  voice,  "there  is  a  con- 
science of  the  head  as  well  as  of  the  heart,  and  in  old  age  we  feel 
as  much  remorse,  if  we  have  wasted  our  natural  talents,  as  if  we 
have  perverted  our  natural  virtues.  The  profound  and  exultant 
satisfaction  with  which  a  man  who  knows  that  he  has  not  lived 
in  vain — that  he  has  entailed  on  the  world  an  heir-loom  of  in- 
struction or  delight — looks  back  upon  departed  struggles,  is  one 
of  the  happiest  emotions  of  which  the  conscience  can  be  capa- 
ble. What,  indeed,  are  the  petty  faults  we  commit  as  individu- 
als, affecting  but  a  narrow  circle,  ceasing  with  our  own  lives,  to 
the  incalculable  and  everlasting  good  we  may  produce  as  public 
men  by  one  book  or  by  one  law  ?  Depend  upon  it  that  the  Al- 
mighty, who  sums  up  all  the  good  and  all  the  evil  done  by  his 
creatures  in  a  just  balance,  will  not  judge  the  august  benefac- 
tors of  the  world  with  the  same  severity  as  those  drones  of  so- 
ciety, who  have  no  great  services  to  show  in  the  eternal  ledger, 
as  a  set-off  to  the  indulgence  of  their  small  vices.  These  things 
rightly  considered,  Maltravers,  you  will  have  every  inducement 
that  can  tempt  a  lofty  mind  and  a  pure  ambition  to  awaken  from 
the  voluptuous  indolence  of  the  literary  Sybarite,  and  contend 
worthily  in  the  world's-wide  Altis  for  a  great  prize."    .;     ..; 

Maltravers  never  before  felt  so  flattered — so  stirred  into  high 
resolves.  The  stately  eloquence,  the  fervid  encouragement  of 
this  man,  usually  so  cold  and  fastidious,  roused  him' like  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet.  He  stopped  short,  his  breath  heaved  thick, 
his  cheek  flushed.  "De  Montaigne,"  said  he,  "your  words  have 
cleared  away  a  thousand  doubts  and  scruples — they  have  gone 
right  to  my^heart.  For  the  first  time  I  understand  what  fame  is — 
what  the  object,  and  what  the  reward  of  labor  !  Visions,  hopes, 
aspirations,  I  may  have  had  before — for  nlonths  a.new  spirit  has 


fekNESt   MALTkAVERS.  ll^ 

teen  fluttering  within  me.  I  have  felt  the  wings  breaking  from 
the  shell,  but  all  was  confused,  dim,  uncertain.  I  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  effort,  with  life  so  short,  and  the  pleasures  of  youth 
so  sweet.  I  now  look  no  longer  on  life  but  as  a  part  of  the  eternity 
to  which  \feel  we  were  born  ;  and  I  recognize  the  solemn  truth 
that  our  objects,  to  be  worthy  life,  should  be  worthy  of  creatures 
in  whom  the  living  principle  is  never  extinct.  Farewell !  come 
joy  or  sorrow,  failure  or  success,  I  will  struggle  to  deserve  your 
friendship."  .  ■  ,, 

Maltravers  sprang  into  his  boat,  and  the  shades  of  night  soon 
snatched  him  from  the  lingering  gaze  of  De  Montaigne. 


BOOK    IV. 

TSaieiq  ;t;0ov<,  tuq  avavdpov 
Koirag  oMaaaa  ,2.tKTpov 
lahuva. — EuRiP.  Med.  441. 

Strange  is  the  land  that  hohls  thee, — and  thy  couch 
Is  widow'd  of  the  loved  one. " 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  I,  alas  ! 
Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years  ; 
And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 
First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 
To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope." 

Cenci. 

From  accompanying  Maltravers  along  the  noiseless  progress 
of  mental  education,  we  are  now  called  awhiFetocast  our  glances 
back  at  the  ruder  and  harsher  ordeal  which  Alice  Darvil  was 
ordained  to  pass.  Along  her  path  poetry  shed  no  flowers,  nor 
were  her  lonely  steps  toward  the  distant  shrine  at  which  her 
pilgrimage  found  its  rest  lighted  by  the  mystic  lamp  of  science, 
or  guided  by  the  thousand  stars  which  are  never  dim  in  the 
heavens  for  those  favored  eyes  from  which  genius  and  fancy  haVe 
removed  many  of  the  films  of  clay.  Not  along  the  aerial  and 
exalted  ways  that  wind  far  above  the  homes  and  bijsiness  of  com- 
mon men — the  solitary  Alps  of  Spiritual  Philosophy— -wandered 


-It4  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

the  desolate  steps  of  the  child  of  poverty  and  sorrow.  Qn  the 
"beaten  and  rugged  highways  of  common  life,  with  a  weary  heart, 
and  with  bleeding  feet,  she  went  her  melancholy  course.  But  the 
goal  which  is  the  great  secret  of  life,  the  sut7imiiniatcanum  of  all 
philosophy,  whether  the  Practical  or  the  Ideal,  was,  perhaps,  no 
less  attainable  for  that  humble  girl  than  for  the  elastic  step  and 
aspiring  heart  of  him  who  thirsted  after  the  Great,  and  almost 
believed  in  the  Impossible. 

We  return  to  that  dismal  night  in  which  Alice  was  torn  from 
the  roof  of  her  lover.  It  was  long  before  she  recovered  hei'  con- 
sciousness of  what  had  passed,  and  gained  a  full  perception  of 
the  fearful  revolution  which  had  taken  place  in  her  destinies. 
It  was  then  a  gray  and  dreary  morning  twilight ;  and  the  rude 
but  covered  vehicle  which  bore  her  was  rolling  along  the  deep 
ruts  of  an  unfrequented  road,  winding  among  the  unenclosed 
and  mountainous  wastes  that,  in  England,  usually  betoken  the 
neighborhood  of  the  sea.  With  a  shudder  Alice  looked  around  ; 
Walters,  her  father's  accomplice,  lay  extended  at  her  feet,  and 
his  heavy  breathing  shovVed  that  he  was  fast  asleep.  Darvil  him- 
self was  urging  on  the  jaded  and  sorry  horse,  and  his  broad  back 
was  turned  toward  Alice ;  the  rain,  from  which,  in  his  position, 
he  was  but  ill  protected  by  the  awning,  dripped  dismally  from 
hisslouchedhat ;  and  now,  as  he  turned  around,  a"nd  his  sinister 
and  gloomy  gaze  rested  upon  the  face  of  Alice,  his  bad  coun- 
tenance, rendered  more  haggard  by  the  cold  raw  light  of  the 
cheerless  dawn,  completed  the  hideous  picture  of  unveiled  and 
ruffianly  wretchedness. 

"Ho,  ho!  Alley,  so  you  arie  come  to  your  senses,"  said  he, 
with  a  kind  of  joyless  giin.  "I  arh  glad  of  it,  for  I  can  have  no 
fainting  fine  ladies  with  me.  You  have  had  along  holiday,  x\lley  ; 
you  must  now  learr^^buce., more  to  work  for  your  poor  father. 
Ah,  you.huve  been  d — d  sly;  but  never  mind  the  past — I  for- 
give it.  You  must  not  run  away  again  without  my  leave  ;  if  you 
are  fond  of  sweethearts,  I  won't  balk  you — but  i^bijii  old'fatiier 
iViiist  go  shares,  Alley.'*'/  '  ;  ''  ''  '  •  ■•■o:  :•  ••  .^i-.i;;  • 
'  Alice  could  hipar  no  hiore;  she  co^eredherfatewith  tfifecl6ak 
that  had  been'thrown  about  her,  and  thbugh  she  did  not  fainf, 
her  senses  seemed  to  belocked  and  paralyzed,  By-and-by  Walters 
w6ke,  and  the  two  men,  heedless  of  her  presence,  conversed 
upori  their  plans.  By  degrees  she  recovered  sufficient  self-pos- 
sessioo  to  listen,  in  the  instinctive  hope  that  some  plan  of  escape 
might  be  suggested  to  her.  But  from  what  she  could  gather  of 
th^  incoherent  and  various  projects  thty  discussed,  ohe  after 
Jiiioth^i'-^dispatirig  upon  eddh  witli  frightful  oatlrs  and  scarce 


5ERNEST   MALTftAVEHS.  1 1^ 

intelligible  slang,  she  could  only  learn  that  it  was  resolved  at  all 
events  to  leave  the  district  in  which  they  were — but  whither, 
seemed  yet  all  undecided.  The  cart  halted  at  last  at  a  miserable- 
looking  hut,  which  the  sign-post  announced  to  be  an  inn  that 
afforded  good  accommodation  to  travellers  ;  to  which  announce- 
ment was  annexed  the  following  epigrammatic  distich  : — 

"  Old  Tom,  be  is  the  best  of  gin  ; 
Drink  him  once  and  you'll  drink  him  agin  I" .         '    \ 

The  hovel  Stood  so  remote  from  all  other  habitation!s,aftdthe 
waste  around  was  so  bare  of  trees,  and  even  shrubs,  that  Alice 
saw  with  despair  that  all  hope  of  flight  in  such  a  place  would 
be  indeed  a  chimera.  But  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  Darvil 
himself,  lifting  her  from  the  cart,  conducted  her  up  a  broken 
and  unlighted  staircase,  into  a  sort  of  loft  rather  than  a  room, 
andpushingher  rudely  in,  turned  the  key  upon  heranddescended. 
The  weather  was  cold,  the  livid  damps  hung  upon  the  distaiffe-d 
walls,  and  there  was  neither  fire  nor  hearth  ;  but;thinly  clad  as 
she  was — her  cloak  and  shawl  her  principal  covering — she  did 
not  feel  the  cold,  for  her  heart  was  more  chilly  than  the  airs  of 
heaven.  At  noon  an  old  woman  brought  her  some  food,  which, 
consisting  of  fish  and  poached  game,  was  better  than  might  have 
been  exi>ected  in  sucha  place,  and  what  would  have  been  deemed 
a  feast  under  her  father's  roof.  With  an  inviting  leer/the  crone 
pointed  to  a  pewter  measure  of  raw  spirits  that  accompanied 
the  viands,  and  assured  her,  in  a:  cracked  and  maudlin  voice, 
that  "!01d  Tom'  was  a  kinder  friend  than  any  of  the: young 
fellers!;"  This  intrusion  ended^  Alice  was  again  left  alone  till 
dusk,  when  Darvil  entered  with  a  bundle  of  clothes,  suchasare 
woun  by  the  peasants  of  that  primitive  district  of  England;  J 
.  "There,  Alley,"  said  he,  " put  on  this  warm  toggery,  finery 
won'fcdo  now.  We  must  leave  no  scent  in  the  track  ;  the  hounds 
are  after  us,.my  little  blowen.  Here's  a  nice  stuff  goWn  for  yoti, 
and  a  red  cloak  that  would  frighten  a  turkeycock.  As  to  th^ 
other  cloak  and  shawl,  don't  be  afraid;  they  shan't  go  to  the  ipop* 
shop,  but  we  will  take  care  of  them> against  we  get  to  some  large 
town  where  there  are  young  fellows  with  bluntin  their:pockets-* 
for  you  seem  to  have  already  found,  out  thatyour-face  is  jiouT 
fortune.  Alley.  Come,  make  haste,  we  must.'be  startingi  I  shall 
come  up  for  you  in  ten,  minutes.  Pisb!  don't  be  faint'-hearted  ; 
here,  take  '  Old  Tom  '—take  it^  i I  say.  What,: you  won't?  Well, 
here's  to  your  health,  and  a  better  taste  to  you!"         . :  v.   •.';  in 

And  now,  as  the  door  once  more  closed  upon  Darvilj 'tears- for 
the  first  time  came  to  th.e. relief  of  Alice/  It  was  awbman^s  wekk- 


Il6  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ness  that  procured  for  her  that  woman's  luxury.  Those  gar- 
ments— they  were  Ernest's  gift — Ernest's  taste  ;  they  were  like 
the  last  relic  of  that  delicious  life  which  now  seemed  to  have  fled 
tfor  ever.  All  traces  of  that  life — of  him,  the  loving,  the  protected, 
the  adored ;  all  trace  of  herself,  as  she  had  been  re-created  by 
love,  was  to  be  lost  to  her  for  ever.  It  was  (as  she  had  read  some- 
where, in  the  little  elementary  volumes  that  bounded  her  his- 
toric lore)  like  that  last  fatal  ceremony  in  which  those  condemned 
for  life  to  the  mines  of  Siberia  are  clothed  with  the  slave's  liv- 
ery, their  past  name  and  record  eternally  blotted  out,  and  thrust 
into  the  vast  wastes,  from  which  even  the  mercy  of  despotism, 
should  it  ever  re-awaken,  cannot  recall  them  ;  for  all  evidence 
of  them — all  individuality — all  mark  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  universal  herd,  is  expunged  from  the  world's  calendar.  She 
was  still  sobbing  in  vehement  and  unrestrained  passion,  when 
Darvil  re-entered.  "What,  not  dressed  yet?"  he  exclaimed,  in 
a  voice  of  impatient  rage  ;  "  harkye,  this  won't  do.  If  in  two  min- 
utes you  are  not  ready,  I'll  send  up  John  Walters  to  help  you  ; 
and  he  is  a  rough  hand,  I  can  tell  you."       . 

This  threat  recalled  Alice  to  herself. v. "ij: will  do  as  you  wish," 
said  she,  meekly. 

'.  "Well,  then,  be  quick ! "  said  Darvil ;  "they  are  now  put- 
ting the  horse  to.  And  mark  me,  girl,  your  father  is  running 
away  from  the  gallows,  and  that  thought  does  not  make  a  man 
stand  upon  scruples.  If  you  once  attempt  to  give  me  the  slip, 
or  do  or  say  anything  that  can  bring  the  bulkies  upon  us — by  the 
devil  in  hell — if,  indeed,  there  be  hell  or  devil — my  knife  shall 
become  better  acquainted  with  that  throat — ^so  look  to  it !  " 

And  this  was  the  father — this  the  condition-^of  her  whose  ear 
had  for  months  drunk  ho  other  sound  than  the  whispers  of  flat- 
tering love — the  murmurs  of  Passion  fiJom  the  lips  of  Poetry.. 

They  continued  their  journey  till  midnight ;  they  then  arrived 
at  an  inn,  little  different  from  the  last ;  -but  here  Alice  was  no 
longer  consigned  to  solitude.  In  a  long  room,  reeking  with 
smoke,  sat  from  twenty  to  thirty  ruffians  before  a  table  on  which 
mugsand  vessels  of  strong  potations  were  formidably  interspersed 
with  sabres  and  pistols.  They  received  Walters  and  Darvil  with 
a  shout  of  Welcome,  and  would  have  crowded  somewhat  uncer- 
emoniously round  Alice,  if  her  father,  whose  well-known  desperi 
ate  and  brutal  ferocity  made  him  a  man  to  be  respected  in  such 
an  assembly,  had  not  said,  sternly,  "Hands  off,  messmates,  and 
make  way  by  the  fire  for  irty  little  gill— ^she  is  meat  for  your 

masters/!;) /•::; !  :^o.;m    .■}-'i,  ^  ■    li--.  •  •■  :)f;o  ■;^■::    ■:!;  -•    v/.i,  !k:. 

aBo  saying,  he  pushed  Alice  dowfi  itito  ahuge  chair  in  the  chim- 


EltNEST    MALTR AVERS.  II7 

ney  nook,  and,  seating  himself  near  her,  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
hastened  to  turn  the  conversation. 

"Well,  captain,"  said  he,  addressing  a  small,  thin  man  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  "I  and  Walters  have  fairly  cut  and  run — the 
land  has  a  bad  air  for  us,  and  we  now  want  the  sea  breeze  to 
cure  the  rope  fever.  So,  knowing  this  was  your  night,  we  have 
crowded  sail,  and  here  we  are.  You  must  give  the  girl  there  a 
lift,  though  I  know  you  don't  like  such  lumber,  and  we'll  run 
ashore  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"  She  seems  a  quiet  little  body,"  replied  the  captain  ;  "  and  we 
would  do  more  than  that  to  oblige  an  old  friend  like  you.  In  half 
an  hour  Oliver*  puts  on  his  nightcap,  and  we  must  then  be  off." 

"The  sooner  the  better."  i    ,    : 

The  men  now  appeared  to  forget  the  presence  of  Alice,  who 
sat  faint  with  fatigue  and  exhaustion,  for  she  had  been  too  sick 
at  heart  to  touch  the  food  brought  to  her  at  their  previous  halt- 
ing-place, gazing  abstractedly  upon  the  fire.  Her  father,  before 
their  departure,  had  made  her  swallow  some  morsels  of  sea-bis- 
cuit, though  each  seemed  to  choke  her;  and  then,  wrapped  in  a 
thick  boat-cloak,  she  was  placed  in  a  small,  well-built  cutter;  and 
as  the  sea-winds  whistled  round  her,  the  present  cold  and  the 
past  fatigues  lulled  her  miserable  heart  into  the  arms  of  the  char- 
itable Sleep.-"- •-       -  -■  • 

CHAPTER  II. 

"  You  are  once  more  a  free  woman; 
Here  I  discharge  your  bonds." 

TAe  Custom  of  the  Country. 

And  many  were  thy  trials,  poor  child  ;  many  that,  were  this 
book  to  germinate  into  volumes,  more  numerous  than  monk  ever 
composed  upon  the  lives  of  saint  or  martyr  (though  a  liundred 
volumes  contained  the  record  of  two  years  only  in  the  life  of  St. 
Anthony),  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  !  We  may  talk  of 
the  fidelity  of  books,  but  no  man  ever  wrote  even  his  own  biog-" 
raphy,  without  being  compelled  to  omit  at  least  nine-tenths  of 
the  most  important  materials.  What  are  three — what  are  six  vol-' 
umes  ?  We  live  six  volumes  in  a  day  !  Thought,  emotion,  joy, 
sorrow,  hope,  fear,  how  prolix  they  would  be,  if  they  might  each 
tell  their  hourly  tale !  But  man's  life  itself  is  a  brief  epitome  of 
that  which  is  infinite  and  everlasting  ;  and  his  most  accurate  CQU* 


Il8  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

fessions  are  a  miserable  abridgment  of  a  hurried  and  confused 
compendium ! 

It  was  about  three  months,  or  more,  from  the  night  in  which 
AHce  wept  herself  to  sleep  amongst  those  wild  companions,  when 
she  contrived  to  escape  from  her  father's  vigilant  eye.  They 
were  then  on  the  coast  of  Ireland.  Darvil  had  separated  him- 
self from  Walters — from  his  sea-faving  companions;  he  had  run 
through  the  greater  part  of  the  money  his  crimes  had  got  to- 
gether ;  he  began  seriously  to  attempt  putting  into  execution  his 
liorrible  design  of  depending  fpx  sujiport  upon  tiiiS;  s«ile  <>f  his 

daughter,  .-      :-i,  :^— ■.;.;..;   -l?  r-  .;  V-.fr.  .   f-";!i:r!V. 

Now,  Aliqe  might  have  been  moulded  into  sinful  purposes,  be- 
fore she  knew  Maltravers;  but  from  that  hour  her  very  error  made 
her  virtuous — she  had  comprehended,  the  moment  she  loved, 
what  was  meant  by  female  honor  ;  and,  by  a  sudden  revelation  she 
had  purchased  modesty,delicacy  of  thought  and  soul,  in  the  sacri- 
fice of  herself.  Much  of  our  , morality  (prudent  and  right  upon 
system),  with  respect  to  the  first  false  step  of  woman,,  leads  us, 
as:  we  all  know,  into  barbarous  errors,  as, to  individual  excep- 
tions. Where,  from  pure  and  confiding  love,  that  first  false  step 
has  been  taken,  many  a  woman  has  been  saved,  in  after  life,  from 
a  thousand  temptations.  The  poor  unfortunates;  who  crowd  our 
streets  and  theatres,  have  rarely,  in  the  first  instance,  been  cor- 
rupted by  love  ;  but  by  poverty,  and  the  contagion  of  circum- 
stance and  example.  It  is  a  miserable  cant  phrase  to  call  them 
the  victims  of  seduction  ;  they  have  been  the  victims  of  hunger, 
of  vanity,  of  curiosity,  of  &v\\/etnale  counsels  ;  but  the  seduc- 
tion of  love  hardly  ever  conducts  to  a  life  of  vice.  If  a  woman 
has  once  really  loved,  the  beloved  object  makes  an  impenetra- 
ble barrier  between  her  and  other  men  ;  their  advances  terrify 
and  revolt — she  would  rather  die  than  be  unfaithful  to  a  mem- 
ory. Though  man  loves  the  sex,  woman  loves  only  the  individ- 
ual ;  and  the  more  she; loves  him,  the  more  cold  she  is  to  the 
species.  For  the  passion  of  woman  is  inlhe  sentiment — the  fan- 
cy— the  heart.  It  rarely  has  much  to  do  with  the  coarse  images 
with  which  boys  and  old  men— tlie  inexperienced  and, the  worfir 
out — connectiti.,     ■■'■-   ■      .vti  i;.  ;is    ;t'  ^  ;  '    ;:/.         i  >  v;;i    ■  li  :;■!• 

But  Alice,  though  her  blood  fart  cold  at  her  terrible  father's 
language,  saw. in  his  very  designs  the  prospect  of  escape.  In  an 
hour  of  drunkenness  he  thrust  her  from  the  house,  and  stationed 
himself  to  watch  her — it  was  in  the: city  of  Cork.  She  formed 
ber  resolution  instantly — tunned  up  a  narrow  street,  and  fledat 
full  ppeed.  iDaiyil  endeavored  in  vain  to  keep  pace  with  her— f 
biS  eyes  dizzy,  his  steps  reeliu^  with  intoxication.  She  heard  his 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  JIQ 

last  curse  dying  from  a  distance  on  the  air,  and  her  fear  winged 
her  steps :  she  paused  at  last,  and  found  herself  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town  : — She  paused,  overcome,  and  deadly  faint;  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  that  a  strange  and  new  life  was 
stirring  within  her  own.  She  had  long  since  known  that  she  bore 
in  her  womb  the  unborn  offspringof  Maltravers,  and  that  knowl- 
edge had  made  her  struggle  and  live  on.  But  now,  the  embryo 
had  quickened  into  being— it  moved — it  appealed  to  her — a  thing 
unseen,  unkno\yn  ;  but  still  it  was  a  living  creature  appealing  to 
a  mother  !  Oh,  the  thrill,  half  of  ineffable  tenderness,  half  of 
mysterious  terror,  at  that  moment ! — What  a  new  chapter  in  the 
life  of  woman  did  it  not  announce  ! — Now,  then,  she  must  be 
watchful  over  herself — must  guard  against  fatigue — must  wres- 
tle with  despair.  Solemn  was  the  trust  committed  to  her — the 
life  of  another — the  child  of  the  Adored.  It  was  a  summer 
night — she  sat  on  a  rude  stone,  the  city  on  one  side,  with  its 
lights  and  lamps  ; — the  whitened  fields  beyond,  with  the  moon 
and  stars  above  ;  and  above  she  raised  her  streaming  eyes,  and 
she  thought  that  God  the  Protector  smiled  upon  her  from  the 
face  of  the  sweet  skies.  So,  after  a  pause  and  a  silent  prayer, 
she  rose  and  resumed  her  way;  When  she  was  wearied  she  crept 
into  a  shed  in  a  farmyard  and  slept,  for  the  first  tir^e  for  weeks, 
the  calm  sleep  of  security  and  hope. 


CHAPTER  III. 

■  How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return 
With  over-weathered  ribs  and  ragged  sails." 

Merchant  of  Venice, 

'\ 

"  Mer.     What  are  these  !  "  . 

Uncle.     The  tenants."  ■  .   .   n 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. — Wit  without  MongjtV'  '■ 

It  was  just  two  years  from  the  nightin  which  Alice  had  beea 
torn  from  the  cottage  :  and,  at  that  time,  Maltravers  was  wan- 
dering amongst  the  ruins  of  ancient  Egypt,  when,  upqn  the  very 
lawn  where  Alice  and  her  lover  had  so  often  loitered  hand  in 
hand,  a  gay  party  of  children  and  young  people  were  assembled. 
The  cottage  had  been  purchased  by  an  opulent  and  retired  manu- 
facturer. He  had  raised  the  low  thatched  roof  another  story 
high — and  blue  slate  had  replaced  the  thatch — and  the  prettyj 
verandahs  overgrown  with  creepershad  been  taken  down, because 
Mrs,  Uobbs  thought  they  e^y?  theTOPnas^a  dull  lopk ;  ^i^d  t^e^ 


120  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

little  rustic  doorway  had  been  replaced  by  four  Ionic  pillars  in 
stucco;  and  a  new  dining-room,  twenty-two  feet  by  eighteen^ 
had  been  built  out  at  one  wing,  and  a  new  drawing-room  had 
been  built  over  the  new  dining-room.  And  the  poor  little  cottage 
looked  quite  grand  and  villa-like.  The  fountain  had  been  taken 
away,  because  it  made  the  house  damp ;  and  there  was  such  a 
broad  carriage-drive  from  the  gate  to  the  house!  The  gate  was 
no  longer  the  modest  green  wooden  gate,  ever  ajar  with  its  easy 
latch;  but  a  tall,  cast-iron,  well-locked  gate,  between  two  pillars 
to  match  the  porch.  And  on  one  of  the  gates  was  a  brass  plate, 
on  which  was  graven  "  Hobbs'  Lodge — Ring  the  bell."  The 
lesser  Hobbses  and  the  bigger  Hobbses  were  all  on  the  lawn — 
many  of  them  fresh  from  school — for  it  was  the  half-holiday  of 
a  Saturday  afternoon.  There  was  mirth,  and  noise,  and  shout- 
ing, and  whooping,  and  the  respectable  old  couple  looked  calmly 
on.  Hobbs  the  father  smoking  his  pipe  (alas,  it  was  not  the  dear 
meerschaum  !) ;  Hobbs  the  mother  talking  to  her  eldest  daughter 
(a  fine  young  woman,  three  months  married,  for  love,  to  a  poor 
man),  upon  the  proper  number  of  days  that  a  leg  of  mutton 
(weight  ten  pounds)  should  be  made  to  last.  *'  Always,  my  dear, 
have  large  joints,  they  are  much  the  most  saving.  Let  me  see — 
what  a  noise  the  boys  do  make  !     No,my  love,  the  ball's  not  here.''* 

"Mamma,  it  is  under  your  petticoats."  '  • 

"La,  child,  how  naughty  you  are  !  " 

"  Holla,  you  sir  !  it's  my  turn  to  go  in  now.  Biddy,  wait, — 
girls  have  no  innings — girls  only  fag  out." 

"Bob,  you  cheat." 

"  Pa,  Ned  says  I  cheat." 

"  Very  likely,  my  dear,  you  are  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Where  was  I,  my  dear  ?  "  resumed  Mrs  Hobbs,  resettling 
herself,  and  readjusting  the  invaded  petticoats.  "  Oh,  about  the 
leg  of  mutton  ! — yes,  large  joints  are  the  best — the  second  day 
a  nice  hash,  with  dumplings;  the  third,  broil  the  bone — your  hus- 
band is  sure  to  like  broiled  bones  ! — and  then  keep  the  scraps 
for  Saturday's  pie  ; — you  know,  my  dear,  your  father  and  I  were 
worse  off  than  you  when  we  began.  But  now  we  have  everything 
that  is  handsome  about  us — nothing  like  management.  Satur- 
day pies  are  very  nice  things,  and  then  you  start  clear  with  your 
joint  on  Sunday.  A  good  wife  like  you  should  never  neglect 
the  Saturday  pie  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  bride,  mournfully,  "  but  Mr.  Tiddy  does  not 
like  pies."' 

"  Not  like  pies !  that's  very  odd— ^Mr.  Hobbs  likes  pies — per- 
haps you  don't  h:ave  th^  crust;' nna^e  thick  ^no'.    HQwsomcvcrj 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  12 1 

you  can  make  it  up  to  him  with  a  pudding.  A  wife  should  always 
study  her  husband's  tastes^ — what  is  a  man's  home  without  love? 
Still  a  husliand  ought  not  to  be  aggravating,  and  dislike  pie..on 

a  Saturday! "  .       ;  ,     

"Hollo  !  I  say,  ma,  do  you  se6  that.ere^  gipsy.!:  I  shall  go 
and  have  my  fortune  told."  i  , 

"Andl--andn"  •  ""^I'l.  ;^;  VV' "•   JlT^'*^:'  ' 

"Lor,  if  there  ben't  a  tramper  !"  crie^  Mr.'  Hoobs',  rising  in- 
dignantly ;  "what  can  the  pai-ish  be  about?" 

The  object  of  these  latter  remarks,  filial  and  paternal,  was  a 
young  woman  in  a  worn,  threadbare  cloak,  with  her  face  pressed 
to  the  open-work  of  the  gate,  and  looking  wistfully — oh,  how  wist- 
fully ! — within.  The  children  eagerly  ran  to  her,  but  they 
involuntarily  slackened  their  steps  when  they  drew  near,  for  she 
was  evidently  not  what  they  had  taken  her  for.  No  gipsy  hues 
darkened  that  ])ale,  thin,  delicate  cheek — no  gipsy  leer  hjrked  in 
those  large  blue  and  streaming  eyes — no  gipsy  effrontery  bronzed 
that  candid  and  childish  brow.  As  she  thus  pressed  her  coun- 
tenance with  convulsive  eagerness  against  the  cold  bars,  the  young 
people  caught  the  contagion  of  inexpressible  and  half- fearful  sad- 
ness—they approached  almost  respectfully — "  Do  you  want  any- 
thing here?"  said  the  eldest  and  boldest  of  the  boys.  '  , 

"1-— I — sureV  this  is  Dale  Cottage?"  ^.  -. 

"It  was  Dak;  Cottage,  it  is  Hobbs*  Lodge  how;  cari^t  you 
read?"  said  the  heir  of  the  Hobbs'  honors,  losing,  in  cohtiempt 
at  the  girl's  ignorance,  his  first  impression  of  sympathy. 

"And — and— -Mr.  Butler,  is  he  gone  tooV\ 

Poorchild!  shespokeasif  the  cottage  wasgone, not  improved; 
the  Ionic  portico  had  no  charm  for  her  !    ' 

"  Butler  ! — no  such  person  li^veshere.',  ^a,  do  you  know  \yhere 

r.  Butler  lives  ?  •.,.:,,•.     ,    ;     '   -...■■    ^.  -, ,-  ,  - 

Pa  was  now  moving  up  to  the  place  6"^  conference  the  stow 
artillery  of  his  fair  rolmd  belly  and  portly  calves.  "  Butler, 
no — I  know  nothing  of  such  a  name — no  Mr.  Butler  lives  here. 
Go  along  with  you- -ain't  you  ashamed  to  beg?" 

"  No  Mr.  Butl  ;r  !  "  said  the  girl,  gasping  for  breath,  and  clinging 
to  the  gate  for  i;uppoit.     "Are  you  sure,  sir?"" 

"  Sure,  yes  !--what  do  you  want  with  him  ?  " 

*'0h,  papa,  she  looks  faint!"  said  one  of  the  girlSy  depre- 
catingly;  "do letherhavesomethingtoeat,rm sureshe'shungry." 

Mr.  Hobbs  looked  angry  ;  he  had  often  been  taken  in,  and 
no  rich  man  likes  beggars.  Generally  speaking,  the  rich  man 
is  in  the  right.  But  then  Mr.  Hobbs  turned  to  the  suspected 
tramper's  sorrowful  face  and  then  to  his  fair  pretty  child— and 


T2i  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

his  good  angelwhispered  something  to  Mr.  Hobbs'  heart— and 
lie  said,  after  a  pause,  "Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  not  feel 
for  a  poor  fellow-creature  not  so  well  to  do  as  ourselves.  ,Cc«iae 
in,  my  lass,  and  have  a  morsel  to  eat."  ._■■    ■        .,    .- 

The  girl  did  not  seend  to  hear  him,  and  he  repeated  tl^e  invita- 
tion, approaching  to  unlock  the  gate. 

"No,  sir,"  said  she,  then  ;  "  no,  I  thank  you.  I  coulanotcome 
in  now.  '  I  could  not  eat  here.  But  tell  me,  sir,  I  implore  you, 
can  you  not  even  guess  where  I  may  find  Mr.  Butler?"        ; 

"Butler  ! "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  whom  curiosity  had  now  drawn 
(o  tile'  spot.  "  1  remember  that  was  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
who  hired  the  place  and  was  robbed."  .    ,: 

"  Robbed !"  said  Mr.  Hobbs,  falling  back  and  relocking  the 
gate— "and  the' new  tea-pot  just   come  home,"  he   mutter.ed 

inly, "  Come,  be  off,  child — be  off ;  we  know  nothing  of  your 

Mr.  Butlers."  ,     ;   . 

The  young  woman  looked  wildly  in  his  face,  cast  a  hurried 
glance  over  the  altered  spot,  and  then,  with  a  kind  of  shiver,  as 
if  the  wind  had  smitten  her  delicate  form  too  rudely,  she  drew 
her  cloak  more  closely  around  her  shoulders,  and  without  say- 
ing another  word,;moved  away.  The  party  looked  after  her,  as 
with  trembling  steiDS  she  passed  down  the  road,  and  all  felt  that 
pang  of  shame  which  is  common  to  the  human  heart  at  the  sight 
of  a  distress  it  has  not  sought  to  soothe.  But  this  feeling  vanished 
at  once  fiom  the  breasts  of  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Hobbs,  when  they  saw 
the  girl  stop  where  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  the  gate  before 
her  eyes;  and  for  the  first  time  they  perceived,  what  the  worn 
clbak  had  hitherto  concealed,  that  the  poor  thing  bore  an  infant 
in  her  arms.  She  halted,  she  gazed  fondly  back.  Even  at  that 
distance  the  despair  of  her  eyes  was  visible;  and  then  as  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  the  infant's  brow,  they  heard  a  cpnyulsive 
sob — they  saw  her  turn  a\vay,  and  she  was  gone!  ••  , 

■  "W611  I  declare!"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs.  ..'-.■;' l--v>iV 

"News  for  the  parish,'! said  Mr.^Hobbs;  " an4 sj^e ,ls.Xo^puH|; 
tpo  ! — what  a  shame  !"  J  -••,,'  >i. ,>,',,;     •/ o'^'' 

"The  girls  about  here  are  very  bad hoW-a-Qays,'jeuiiy,,'^'gaid 
the  mother  to  the  bride.  ,    .    ' 

"I  see  now  why  she  wapted  Mr.  Butler,"  quoth  Hobbs,  with 
a  knowing  wink — "the  slut  has  come  to  swear!  "  ',      •,  . 

And  it  was  for  this  that  Alice  had  supported  her  strength— 
her  courage — during  the  sharp  pains  of  childbirth;  during  a 
severe  and  crushing  illness,  which  for  months  after  her  confine- 
ment had  stretched  her  upon  a  peasant's  bed  (the  object  of  a 
f  title  but  kindly  diarity  of  an  Iri'shshealing), — ^f  or  this,  day  after 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I23 

day,  she  had  whispered  to  herself,  "  I  shall  get  well,  and  I  will 
beg  my  way  to  the  cottage,  and  find  him  there  still,  and  put  my 
little  one  in  his  arms,  and  all  will  be  bright  again  "; — for  this,  as 
soon  as  she  could  walk  without  aid,  had  she  set  out  on  foot  from 
the  distant  land  ;  for  this,  almost  with  a  dog's  instinct  (for  she 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn — -what  county  the  cottage  was  placed 
in  ;  she  only  knew  the  name  of  the  neighboring  town  ;  and  that, 
populous  as  it  was,  sounded  strange  to  the  ears  of  those  she 
asked  ;  and  she  had  often  arid  ofteh  been  directed  wrong), ^for 
this,  I  say,  almost  Hvith  a  dog's  faithful  instinct,  she  had,  in  cold 
and  heat,  in  hanger  and  thirst,  tracked  to  her  old  master's  home 
her  desolate  andionely  way  !  And  thrice  had  she  over-fattigued 
herself — and  thrice  again  been  indebted  to  humble  pity  for  a  bed 
wliereon  to  lay  a  feveris'h  andbroken  frame;  '  And  once,  too,  her 
baby— her  darling,  her  life  of  life,  had  been  ill — had  been  near 
unto  death,  and  she  could  not  stir  until  the  infant  (it  was  a  girl) 
was  well  again,  and  could  srtiile  in  her  face  and  crow.  And  thus, 
many,  many  months  had  el'apsed,  since  the  day  she  set  but  on  her 
pilgrimage,  to  that  on  whieh  she  found  its  goal.  Biit  never,  save 
when  the  child  was  ill,  had  she  desporided  or  abated  heart  and 
hope.  She  Sliould  see  him  again  and  h^  would'  kiss  her'  child. 
And  now— t)o-^I  cannot  paint  the  might  Of  that  stunning  blow! 
She  knew  not,  she  dreamed  not,  of  the  kihd  precautions  Mal- 
traverS  had  taken  ;  and  he  had  not  sufficiently  calculated  on  her 
thorough  "ignorance  of  the  world.  .  How  coiild  she  divine  that 
the  mJigistrate,  not  a  mile  distant  from  her,  could  have  told  her" 
all  she  sought  to  know  ?  Could  she  have  but  met  tTie  gardener—; 
or  the  old  woman-servant — all  would  have  been  well!  These 
last,  indeed,  she  had  the  forethought  to  ask  for.  But  the  woman 
was  dead,  and  the  gardener  had  taken  a  strange  service  in  some 
distant  county.  And  so  died  her  last  gleam  of  hope.  If  one 
person  who  remembered  the  search  of  Maltravers  had  but  met 
and  recognized  her!  'But  she  had  been  seen  by  so  few— and 
now  the  bright,  fresh  girl  was  so  sadly  altered!  Her Yace  was 
not  yet  run,  and  many  a  sharp  wind  upon  the  motii'nful  sca^iiad 
the  bark  to  brave,  before  its  haven  was  found  at  last. 


1^4  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Which  should  express  her  goodliest,"— Shakespeare. 

"  Je  ^  plains,  Je  la  blame,  et  je  suis  son  appui/'* — Voltaire. 

And  now  Alice  felt  that  she  was  on  the  wide  world,  alone 
with  her  child — no  longer  to  be  protected,  but  to.  protect ;  and 
after  the  first  days  of  agony,  a  new  spirit,  not  indeed  of  hope, 
but  of  endurance,  passed  within  her.  Her  solitary  wanderings, 
with  God  her  only  guide,  had  tended  greatly  to  elevate  and  con- 
firm her  character.  She  felt  a  strong  reliance  on  His  mysterious 
mercy — she  felt,  too,  the  responsibility  of  a  mother.  Thrown 
for  so  many  months  upon  her  own  resources  even  for  the  bread 
of  life,  her  intellect  was  unconsciously  sharpened,  and  a  habit 
of  patient  fortitude  had  strengthened  a  nature  originally  clinging 
and  femininely  soft.  She  resolved  to  pass  into  someothercour^- 
try,  for  she  could  neither  bear  the  thoughts  that  haunted  the 
neighborhood  around,  nor  think  without  a  Ipathing  horror  pfthe 
possibility  of  her  father's  return.  Accordingly,  one  day,  she 
renewed  her  wanderings — and  after  a  week's  travel,  arrived  at 
a  small  village.  Charity  is  so  common  in  England,  it  so  spon- 
taneously springs  up  everywhere,  likethe  good  seed  by  the  road- 
side, that  she  had  rarely  wanted  the  bare  necessaries  of  existence. 
And  her  humble  manner,  and  sweet,  well-tuned  voice,  so  free 
from  the  professional  whine  of  mendicancy,  had  usually  itscharni 
for  the  sternest.  So. she  generally  obtained  enough  to  buy  bread 
and  a  night's  lodging,  and,  if  sometimes  she  failed,  she  could 
bear  hunger  and  was  not  afraid  to  creep  into  some  shed,  or, 
when  by  the  sea-shore,  even  into  some  sheltering  cavern.  Hei; 
child  throve  too — for  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb! 
But  now,  so  far  as  physical  privation  went,  the  worst  was  over. 

It  so  happened  that  as  Alice  was  drawing  herself  wearilyalong 
to  the  entrance  of  the  village  which  was  to  bound  her  day's  jour- 
ney, she  was  rnet  by  alady,  past  middle  age,  ix\  whose  countenance 
compassion  was  so  visible,  that  Alice  would  not  beg,  for  she  had 
a  strange  delicacy  or  pride,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called,  and 
rather  begged  of  the  stern  than  of  those  who  looked  kindly  at 
her — she  did  not  like  to  lower  herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  last. 

The  lady  stopped, 

"  My  poor  girl,  where  are  you  going?" 

"  Where  God  pleases,  madam,"  said  Alice. 

*  I  pity  her,  I  blame  her,  and  am  her  support. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  125 

"  Humpli  !  and  is  thajt  your  own,  child  P-r-you  qre  almost  a 

child  yourself,       .,   ;.  ;    ,:       -      ,..,,.::  ...    - 

"  It  is  mine,  madam/'  said  Alice,  gazing'  fondly'  at  the  in- 
fant ; — "  it  is  my  all  !  " 

The  lady's  voice  faltered.     "  Are  you  married  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Married! — oh,  no,  madam!."  replied  Alice,  innocently, 
yet  without  blushing,  for  she  never  knew  that  she  had  done 
wrong  in  loving  Maltravers. 

The  lady  drew  gently  back,  but  not  in  horror — no,  in  still 
deeper  compassion  ;  for  that  lady  had  true  virtue,  and  she  knew 
that  the  faults  of  her  sex  are  sufficiently  punished  to  permit 
Virtue  to  pity  them  without  a  sin.  , 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  she  said,  however,  with,  greater  gravity. 
"  Are  you  travelling  to  seek  the  father.?  '*  ■:. 

"Ah,  madam !    I  shall  never  see  him  again !  "    And  Alice  wept. 

"  What  ! — has  he  abandoned  you — so  young,  so  beautiful !" 
added  the  lady  to  herself. 

"Abandoned  me  ! — no,  madam  ;  but  it  is  a  long  ta.le.  Good- 
evening — I  thank  you  kindly  for  your  pity." 

The  lady's  eyes  ran  over. 

"  Stay,"  she  said  ;  "tell  me  frankly  where  yo\i  are  going,  and 
what  is  your  object.'**   '    '""' 

"  Alas,  madam,  I  aWi  going  anywhere;  f©r  I  have  no  home  ; 
but  I  wish  to  live  and  work  for  my  living,  in  order  that  my 
child  may  not  want  for  anything.,  rl  wish,Jj(^quld  raaipt^in  fliv- 
self — he  used  to  say  I  could."     ,,"  ,u\.      ,1'.^.;         r   .p'    '*  ,  .!...'.,, 

"He  ! — your  language  and  manners  are  not  those  pf  a  peas- 
ant.    What  can  you  do? — What  do  you  know  ?  "  . 

"Music,  and  work,  and— and — "  ..,.:, 

"  Music  ? — this  is  strange  !     What  were  your  parents  .'" 

Alice  shuddered,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

The  lady's  interest  was  now  fairly  warmed  in  her  betialf. 

"She  has  sinned,"  said  she.  to  herself  ;  "but  at  that  age^  how 
can  one  be  harsh  ?— she  must  not  be  thrown  upon  the  world  to 
make  sin. a  habit.  Follow  me,". she  said,, after  a, little  pause  : 
"  and  think  you  have  found  a  friend.'* 

The  lady  turned  from  the  high-road  down  a  green  lane  which 
led  to  a  park  lodge.  This  lodge  she  entered  ;  and  after  a  short 
conversation  with  the  inmate,  beckoned  to  Alice  to  join  her. 

"Janet,"  said  Alice's  new  protector  to  a  comely  and  pleas- 
ant-eyed woman,  "  This  is  the  young  person — you  will  show 
her  and  the  infant  every  attention.  I  shall  send  down  proper 
clothing  for  her  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  then  have  thought  what 
will  be  best  for  her  future  welfare." 


126  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.. 

With  that,  the  lady  smiled  benignly  upon  A.H.ce,  whose  .heat 
was  too  Full  to  speak  ;  and  the  door  of  the  cottage  closed  upoi. 
her,  and  Alice  thougkt  the  day  ha,d  grown  darker. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Believe  me,  she  has  won  me  much  to  pity  her. 
Alas  !  her  gentle  nature  was  not  made 
To  buffet  whh  iadversity." — Rowe. 

"  Sober  he  was,  and  grave  from  early  youth. 
Mindful  of  forms,  but  more  intent  on  truth  ; 
In  a  light  drab  he  uniformly  dress'd,         . 
And  look  serene  th'  unruffled  mind  express'd. 
♦  *  *  *  * 

;     *  *  #  .     #  » 

Yet  might  observers  in  his  sparklitjg  eye 

Some  observation,  some  acuteness  spy  ; 

The  friendly  thought  it  keen,  the  treacherous  deeni'd'it  sly; 

Yet  not  a  crime  could  foe  or  friend  detect. 

His  actions  all  were  like  his  speech  correct — 

Chaste,  sober,  solemn,  and  devout  they  named. 

Him  who  was  this,  and  not  of  this  ashamed.  "—Crabbe. 

j-.i,.,'-  u  "  111. on  and  sound  this  secret.''^BEAUMONT  and  Fletcher. 

-"mI^^.  Leslie,  the  lady  introduced  to  the  reader  in  the  last 
chapter,  Avas  a  '  Womari  of  the  firmest  intellect  combined  (no 
unusual  combination)  with  the  softest  heart.  She  learned 
Alice's  history  with  admiration  and  pity.  The'  natural  inno- 
cence and  honesty  of  the-young  mother  spoke  so  eloquently  in 
her  words  and  looks,  that  Mrs.  Leslie,  on  hearing  her  tale,  found 
much  less  to  forgive  than  she  had  anticipated.  Still  she  deemed 
it  necessary  to  'enlighten  Alice  as 'to  the  criminality  of  the  con- 
nection she  had  forqied.  But  here  Alice  was  singularly  dull — 
she  listened  in  rhfeek  patience  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  lecture;  but  it 
evidently  made  but  slight  impression  on  her.  She  had  not  yet 
seen  enough  of  the  Social'state,  to  correct  the  first  impressions 
of  the  Natural  :  and  all  she  could;say  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Leslie 
Was^—  "  It  miy  be  all  very  true,  madam,  but  I  have  been,  so 
much  better  since  I  knew  him  !  "'"■'     '     ;     .  '  . 

But  though  Alice  took  humbly  any"  censure  upon  herself, .she 
would  not  "hear  a  syllable  insinuated  against  Maltravers.  When, 
In  a!  very  natural  indignation,  Mrs.  Leslie  denounced  hira  as  a 
destroyer  of  innocence — :for  Mrs.  Leslie  could  not  learn  all. that 
extenuated  his  Offettce-^Alice  started  up  with  flashing  eyes  arid 


ERNEST    MALTRAVKRS.  I27, 

heaving  heart,  and  would  have  hurried  from  the  only  shelter  she. 
had  in  the  wide  world — she  would  sooner  have  died — she  would 
sooner  even  have  seen  her  child  die,  than  done  that  idol  of  her 
soul,  who,  in  her  eyes,  stood  alone  on  some  pinnacle  between 
earth  and  heaven,  the  wrong  of  hearing  him  reviled.  With  diffi- 
culty Mrs.  Leslie  could  restrain,  with  still  more  difficulty  could 
she  pacify  and  soothe  her  ;  and  for  the  girl's  petulance,  wViich 
others  might  have  deemed  insolent  or  ungrateful,  the  woman- 
heart  of  Mrs.  Leslie  loved  her  all  the  better.  The  more  she  saw 
of  Alice,  the  more  she  comprehended  her  story  a.hd  character, 
the  more  was  she  lost  in  wonder  at  the  romance  of  wliich  this^ 
beautiful  child  had  been  the  heroine,  aiid.  the  moxe  perplexed 
she  Was  as  to  Alice's  future  prospects;  ' '    ''^''".  •...'. 

At  length,  hoivever,  when  ^he  becarneac(:[uai'nted  with  Alice's 
musical  acquirements,  which  were,  indeed,  of  no  common  order, 
a  light  broke  in  upon  her.  Here  was  the  source  of  her  future 
independence.  Maltravers,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  a  musi- 
cian of  consummate  skill  as  well  as  taste,  and  Alice's  natural 
talent  for  the  art  had  advanced  her,  in  the  spa.ce  of  months,  to 
■9.  degree  of  perfection  which  it  costs  others — which  it  had  cost 
even  the  quick  Maltravers — years  to  obtain.  But  we  learn  so. 
rapidly  when  our  teachers  are  those  we  love,  and  it  may  be  ob- 
served that  the  less  our  knowledge,  the  less  perhaps  our  genius 
in  othei"  things,'  the  rriore  facile  are  our  attainments  in  music, 
which  is  a  very  jealous  mistress  of  the  mind.  Mrs.  Leslie  re- 
solved to  have  her  perfected  In  this  art,  and  so  enat)le  her  to' 
becoriie  a  teacher  toothers.  In  the  town  of  C — '■ — ,  about  thirty 
miles  from  Mrs.  Leslie's  house  though  in  the  sa,me  county, 
there  was  no  inconsiderable  circle  of  wealthy  and  intelligent  per- 
sons ;  for  it  was  a  cathedral  tOwri,  and  the  resident  clergy  drew 
around  them' a  kind  of  provincial' aristocracy.  'Here,  as  inmost 
rural  towns  in  England,  music  was  much  cultivated,  botli  among 
the  higiier  and  middle  classes.  'Fhere  were  amateur  concerts, 
and  glee-clubs,  and  subscriptions  for  sacred  music  ;  and  once 
every  five  years  there  was  the  great  C — —  Festival.  In  this 
town,  Mrs.  Leslie  established  Alice:  she  placed  her  under  the 
roof  of  a  ci-devant  music-master,  who,  having  retired  from  his 
profession,  was  no  longer  jealous  of  rivals,  but  who,  by  hand- 
some terms,  was  induced  to  complete  the  education  of  Alice.  It 
was  an  eligible  and  comfortable  abode,  and  the  music-master  arid 
his  wife  were  a  good-natured,  easy  old  couple.  ' 

Three  months  of  resolute  and  unceasing  perseverance,  coiii- 
bined  with  the  singular  ductility  and  native  gifts  of  Alice,  suf- 
ficed to  render  her  the  most  promising  pupil  the  good  musician" 


128  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

had  ever  accomplished  ;  and  in  three  months  more,  introduced 
by  Mrs.  Leslie  in  many  of  the  families  in  the  place,  Alice  was 
established  in  a  home  of  her  own  ;  and,  what  with  regular  lessons, 
and  occasional  assistance  at  musical  parties,  she  was  iairly  earn- 
ing what  her  tutor  reasonably  pronounced  to  be  "a  very  genteel 
independence." 

Now,  in  these  arrangements  (for  we  must  here  go  back  a  little), 
there  had  been  one  gigantic  difficulty  of  conscience  in  one  party, 
of  feeling  in  another,  to  surmount,  Mrs.  Leslie  saw  at  once  that 
unless  Alice's  misfortune  was  concealed,  all  the  virtues  and  all 
the  talents  in  the  world  could  not  enable  her  to  retrace  the  one 
false  step.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  a  woman  of  habitual  truth  and  strict 
rectitude,  and  ^he  was  sorely  perplexed  between  the  propriety 
of  candor  and  its  cruelty.  She  felt  unequal  to  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  action  on  herself  ;  and,  after  much  meditation,  she  re- 
solved to  confide  her  scruples  to  one  who,  of  all  whom  she  knew, 
possessed  the  highest  character  for  moral  worth  and  religious 
sanctity.  This  gentleman,  lately  a  widower,  lived  at  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  selected  for  Alice's  future  residence,  and  at 
that  time  happened  to  be  on  a  visit  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  neighbor- 
hood. He  was  an  opulent  man,  a  banker  ;  he  had  once  repre- 
sented the  town  in  Parliament,  and  retiring,  rrom  disinclination 
to  the  late  hours  and  onerous  fatigues  even  of  an  iinreformed 
House  of  .Commons,  he  still  possessed  an  influence  to  return  one, 
if  .not  both,  of  the  members  for  the  city  of  C .  And  that  in- 
fluence was  always  exerted  so  as  best  to  secure  his  own  interest 
with  the  powers  that  be,  and  advance  certain  objects  of  ambition 
(for  he  was  both  an  ostentatious  and  ambitious  man  in  his  way), 
which  he  felt  he  might  more  easily  obtain  by  proxy  than  by  his 
own  votes  and  voice  in  Parliament — an  atmosphere  in  which  his 
light  did  not  shine.  And  it  was  with  a  wonderful  address  that 
the  banker  contrived  at  once  to  support  the  government,  and 
yet,  by  the  frequent  expressions  of  liberal  opinions,  to  conciliate 
the  Whigs  and  Dissenters  of  his  neighborhood.  Parties,  politi- 
cal and  sectarian,  were  not  then  so  irreconcilable  as  they  are 
now.  In  the  whole  county  there  was  no  one  so  respected  as 
this  eminent  person,  and  yet  he  possessed  no  shining  talents, 
though  a  laborious  apd  energetic  man  of  business.  It  was  solely 
and  wholly  the  force  of  moral  character  which  gave  him  his 
position  in  society.  He  felt  this  ;  he  was  sensitively  proud  of  it; 
he  was  painfully  anxious  not  to  lose  an  atom  of  a  distinction 
that  required  to  be  vigilantly  secured.  He  was  a  very  remark- 
abUy  yet  not  (perhaps  could  we  penetrate  all  hearts)  a  very  un- 
common,  character— this  banter  !  '  He  had  risen  from,  compara- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS,  129 

tively  speaking,  a  low  origin  and  humble  fortunes,  and  entirely 
by  the  scrupulous  and  sedate  propriety  of  his  outward  conduct. 
With  such  a  propriety  he,  therefore,  inseparably  connected  every 
notion  of  worldly  prosperity  and  honor.  Thus,  though  far  from 
a  bad  man,  he  was  forced  into  being  something  of  a  hypocrite. 
Every  year  he  had  grown  more  starch  and  more  saintly.  He 
was  conscience-keeper  to  the  whole  town  ;  and  it  is  astonishing 
how  many  persons  hardly  dared  to  make  a  will  or  subscribe  to 
a  charity  without  his  advice.  As  he  was  a  shrewd  man  of  this 
world,  as  well  as  an  accredited  guide  to  the  next,  his  advice 
was  precisely  of  a  nature  to  reconcile  the  Conscience  and  the 
Interest ;  and  he  was  a  kind  of  negotiator  in  the  reciprocal 
diplomacy  of  earth  and  heaven.  But  our  banker  was  really  a 
charitable  man,  and  a  benevolent  man,  and  a  sincere  believer. 
How,  then,  was  he  a  hypocrite  ?  Simply  because  he  professed 
to  be  far  more  charitable,  more  benevolent,  and  more  pious  than 
he  really  was.  His  reputation  had  now  arrived  to  that  degree 
of  immaculate  polish  that  the  smallest  breath,  which  would  not 
have  tarnished  the  character  of  another  man,  would  have  fixed 
an  indelible  stain  upon  his.  As  he  affected  to  be  more  strict 
than  the  churchmen,  and  was  a  great  oracle  with  all  who  re- 
garded churchmen  as  lukewarm,  so  his  conduct  was  narrowly 
watched  by  all  the  clergy  of  the  orthodox  cathedral,  good  men 
doubtless,  but  not  affecting  to  be  saints,  who  were  jealous  at 
being  so  luminously  outshone  by  a  layman  and  an  authority  of 
the  sectarians.  On  the  other  hand,  the  intense  homage  and 
almost  worship  he  received  from  his  followers  kept  his  goodness 
upon  a  stretch,  if  not  beyond  all  human  power,  certainly  beyond 
his  own.  For  "  admiration  "  (as  it  is  well  said  somewhere)  "  is 
a  kind  of  superstition  which  expects  miracles."  From  nature 
this  gentleman  had  received  an  inordinate  share  of  animal  pro- 
pensities ;  he  had  strong  passions,  he  was  by  temperament  a  sen- 
sualist. He  loved  good  eating  and  good  wine — he  loved  woman. 
The  two  former  blessings  of  the  carnal  life  are  not  incompati- 
ble with  canonization  ;  but  St.  Anthony  has  shown  that  women, 
however  angelic,  are  not  precisely  that  order  of  angels  that 
saints  may  safely  commune  with.  If,  therefore,  he  ever  yielded 
to  temptations  of  a  sexual  nature,  it  was  with  profound  secrecy 
and  caution  ;  nor  did  his  right  hand  know  what  his  left 
hand  did. 

This  gentleman  had  married  a  woman  much  older  than 
himself,  but  her  fortune  had  been  one  of  the  necessary  step- 
ping-stones in  his  career.  His  exemplary  conduct  towards 
this  lady,  ugly  as  well  as  old,  had  done  much  towards  increas- 


130  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

ing  the  odor  of  his  sanctity.  She  died  of  an  ague,  and  the  wid- 
ower did  not  shock  probabilities  by  affecting  too  severe  a  grief. 

"The  Lord's  will  be  done!"  said  he;  "she  was  a  good 
woman,  but  we  should  not  set  our  affections  too  much  upon 
His  perishable  creatures !  " 

This  was  all  he  was  ever  heard  to  say  on  the  matter.  He 
took  an  elderly  gentlewoman,  distantly  related  to  him,  to  man- 
age his  house,  and  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  and  it  was 
thought  not  impossible,  though  the  widower  was  past  fifty,  that 
he  might  marry  again. 

Such  was  the  gentleman  called  in  by  Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  of  the 
same  religious  opinions,  had  long  known  and  revered  him,  to 
decide  the  affairs  of  Alice  and  of  Conscience. 

As  this  man  exercised  no  slight  or  fugitive  influence  over 
Alice  Darvil's  destinies,  his  counsels  on  the  point  in  discussion 
ought  to  be  fairly  related. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  concluding  the  history,  "  you 
will  perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  this  poor  young  creature  has  been 
less  culpable  than  she  appears.  From  the  extraordinary  pro- 
ficiency she  has  made  in  music,  in  a  time  that,  by  her  own 
account,  seems  incredibly  short,  I  should  suspect  her  unprin- 
cipled betrayer  must  have  been  an  artist — a  professional  man. 
It  is  just  possible  that  they  may  meet  again,  and  (as  the  ranks 
between  them  cannot  be  so  very  disproportionate)  that  he  may 
marry  her.  I  am  sure  that  he  could  not  do  a  better  or  a  wiser 
thing,  for  she  loves  him  too  fondly,  despite  her  wrongs.  Under 
these  ciecumstances,  would  it  be  a — a — a  culpable  disguise  of 
truth  to  represent  her  as  a  married  woman — separated  from  her 
husband — and  give  her  the  name  of  her  seducer  ?  Without 
such  a  precaution  you  will  see,  sir,  that  all  hope  of  settling  her 
reputably  for  life — all  chance  of  procuring  her  any  creditable 
independence,  is  out  of  the  question.  Such  is  my  dilemma. 
What  is  your  advice  ? — palatable  or  not,  I  shall  abide  by  it." 

The  banker's  grave  and  saturnine  countenance  exhibited  a 
slight  degree  of  embarrassment  at  the  case  submitted  to  him. 
He  began  brushing  away,  with  the  cuff  of  his  black  coat,  some 
atoms  of  dust  that  had  settled  on  his  drab  small-clothes;  and, 
after  a  slight  pause,  he  replied,  "Why,  really,  dear  madam,  the 
question  is  one  of  much  delicacy — I  doubt  if  men  could  be  good 
judges  upon  it;  your  sex's  tact  and  instinct  on  these  matters  are 
better — much  better  than  our  sagacity.  There  is  much  in  the 
dictates  of  your  own  heart;  for  to  those  who  are  in  the  grace  of 
the  Lord,  He  vouchsafes  to  communicate  his  pleasure,  by  spirit- 
ual hints  md  inward  suggestions ! " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I3I 

"  If  SO,  my  dear  sir,  the  matter  is  decided;  for  my  heart  whis- 
pers me  that  this  slight  deviation  from  truth  would  be  a  less 
culpable  offence  than  turning  so  young  and,  I  had  almost  said, 
so  innocent  a  creature  adrift  upon  the  world.  I  may  take  your 
opinion  as  my  sanction." 

*'  Why  really,  I  can  scarcely  say  so  much  as  that,"  said  the 
banker  with  a  slight  smile.  "  A  deviation  from  truth  cannot  be 
incurred  without  some  forfeiture  of  strict  duty." 

"  Not  in  any  case.  Alas,  I  was  afraid  so  !  "  said  Mrs.  Leslie, 
despondingly. 

"In  any  case!  Oh,  there  may  be  cases!  But  had  I  not  better 
see  the  young  woman,  and  ascertain  that  your  benevolent  heart 
has  not  deceived  you  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie  ;  "she  is  now  in  the 
house.     I  will  ring  for  her." 

"Should  we  not  be  alone?  " 

*'  Certainly;  I  will  leave  you  together." 

Alice  was  sent  for,  and  appeared. 

"  This  pious  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  will  confer  with 
you  for  a  few  moments,  my  child.  Do  not  be  afraid;  he  is  the 
best  of  men."  With  these  words  of  encouragement  the  good 
lady  vanished,  and  Alice  saw  before  her  a  tall  dark  man,  with 
a  head  bald  in  front,  yet  larger  behind  than  before,  with  spec- 
tacles upon  a  pair  of  shrewd,  penetrating  eyes,  and  an  outline 
of  countenance  that  showed  he  must  have  been  handsome  in 
earlier  manhood. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  the  banker,  seating  himself,  after  a 
deliberate  survey  of  the  fair  countenance  that  blushed  beneath 
his  gaze,  "Mrs.  Leslie  and  myself  have  been  conferring  upon 
your  temporal  welfare.  You  have  been  unfortunate,  my  child?" 

"  Ah— yes." 

"Well,  well,  you  are  very  young;  we  must  not  be  too  severe 
upon  youth.     You  will  never  do  so  again  ?  " 

"Do  what,  please  you,  sir?  " 

"  What!  Humph!  I  mean  that  you  will  be  more  rigid,  more 
circumspect.  Men  are  deceitful;  you  must  be  on  your  guard 
against  them.  You  are  handsome,  child,  very  handsome — 
more's  the  pity."  And  the  banker  took  Alice's  hand  and  pressed 
it  with  great  unction.  Alice  looked  at  him  gravely,  and  drew 
the  hand  away  instinctively. 

The  banker  lowered  his  spectacles,  and  gazed  at  her  without 
their  aid;  his  eyes  were  still  fine  and  expressive.  "What  is 
your  name?"  he  asked. 

"  Alice — Alice  Darvil,  sir," 


132 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


"  Well,  Alice,  we  have  been  considering  what  is  best  for  you. 
You  wish  to  earn  your  own  livelihood,  and  perhaps  marry  some 
honest  man  hereafter." 

"Marry,  sir — never!"  said  Alice,  with  great  earnestness,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  And  why  ? " 

"  Because  I  shall  never  see  him  on  earth,  and  they  do  not 
marry  in  heaven,  sir." 

The  banker  was  moved,  for  he  was  not  worse  than  his  neigh- 
bors, though  trying  to  make  them  believe  he  was  so  much  better, 

"Well,  time  enough  to  talk  of  that;  but  in  the  meanwhile 
you  would  support  yourself?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  His  child  ought  to  be  a  burden  to  none — nor  I 
either.  I  once  wished  to  die,  but  then  who  would  love  my 
little  one  ?     Now  I  wish  to  live." 

"  But  what  mode  of  livelihood  would  you  prefer?  Would  you 
go  into  a  family,  in  some  capacity? — not  that  of  a  servant — you 
are  too  delicate  for  that." 

"Oh,  no!— no!" 
'    "But,  again,  why?"  asked  the  banker,  soothingly,  yet  sur- 
prised. 

"  Because,"  said  Alice,  almost  solemnly,  "there  are  so^e  hours 
when  I  feel  I  must  be  alone.  I  sometimes  think  I  am  po.f  all 
right  here"  and  she  touched  her  forehead,  "  They  caljed  me 
an  idiot  before  I  knew  him! — No,  I  could  not  live  with  others, 
for  I  can  only  cry  when  nobody  but  my  child  is  with  me." 

This  was  said  with  such  unconscious,  and  therefore  with  such 
pathetic,  simplicity,  that  the  banker  was  sensibly  affected.  He 
rose,  stirred  the  fire,  resettled  himself,  and,  after  a  pause,  said 
emphatically — "  Alice,  I  will  be  your  friend.  Let  me  believe 
you  will  deserve  it." 

Alice  bent  her  graceful  head,  and  seeing  that  he  had  sunk  into 
an  abstracted  silence,  she  thought  it  time  for  her  to  withdraw. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  beautiful,"  said  the  banker,  almost  aloud,  when 
he  was  alone;  "and  the  old  lady  is  right — she  is  as  innocent  as 
if  she  had  not  fallen.  I  wonder — "  Here  he  stopped  short, 
and  walked  to  the  glass  over  the  mantel-piece,  where  he  was  still 
gazing  on  his  own  features,  when  Mrs,  Leslie  returned. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  she,  a  little  surprised  at  this  seeming  vanity 
in  so  pious  a  man. 

The  banker  started.  "  Madam,  I  honor  your  penetration  as 
much  as  your  charity;  Ithinkthatthereissomuch  to  befearedin 
letting  all  the  world  know  this  young  female's  past  error,  that, 
though  I  dare  not  advise,  I  cannot  blame,  your  concealment  of  it." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  I33 

"  But,  sir,  your  words  have  sunk  deep  into  my  thoughts;  you 
said  every  deviation  from  truth  was  a  forfeiture  of  duty." 

"Certainly;  but  there  are  some  exceptions.  The  world  is  a 
bad  world,  we  are  born  in  sin,  and  the  children  of  wrath.  We 
do  not  tell  infants  all  the  truth,  when  they  ask  us  questions,  the 
proper  answers  of  which  would  mislead,  not  enlighten,  them.  In 
some  things  the  world  are  infants.  The  very  science  of  govern- 
ment is  the  science  of  concealing  truth — so  is  the  system  of 
trade.  We  could  not  blame  the  tradesman  for  not  telling  the 
public  that  if  all  his  debts  were  called  in  he  would  be  a  bankrupt." 

"And  he  may  marry  her  after  all — this  Mr.  Butler." 

"Heaven  forbid — the  villain! — Well,  madam,  I  will  see  to 
this  poor  young  thing — she  shall  not  want  a  guide." 

"  Heaven  reward  you  !  How  wicked  some  people  are  to  call 
you  severe  ! " 

"I  can  bear ///«/ blame  with  a  meek  temper,madam.  Good-day." 

"Good-day.  You  will  remember  how  strictly  confidential 
has  been  our  conversation." 

"  Not  a  breath  shall  transpire.  I  will  send  you  some  tracts 
to-morrow — so  comforting.     Heaven  bless  you  !  " 

This  difficulty  smoothed,  Mrs.  Leslie,  to  her  astonishment, 
found  that  she  had  another  to  contend  with  in  Alice  herself. 
For^  first,  Alice  conceived  that  to  change  her  name  and  keep  her 
secret,  was  to  confess  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed,  rather  than 
proud,  of  her  love  to  Ernest,  and  she  thought  that  so  ungrate- 
ful to  him! — and  secondly,  to  take  his  name,  to  pass  for  his 
wife — what  presumption — he  would  certainly  have  a  right  to  be 
offended!  At  these  scruples,  Mrs.  Leslie  well-nigh  lost  all  pa- 
tience: and  the  banker,  to  his  own  surprise,  was  again  called  in. 
We  have  said  that  he  was  an  experienced  and  skilful  adviser, 
which  implies  the  faculty  of  persuasion.  He  soon  saw  the  handle 
by  which  Alice's  obstinacy  might  always  be  moved — her  little 
girl's  welfare.  He  put  this  so  forcibly  before  her  eyes;  he  repre- 
sented the  child's  future  fate  as  resting  so  much,  not  only  on 
her  own  good  conduct,  but  on  her  outward  respectability,  that 
he  prevailed  upon  her  at  last;  and,  perhaps,  one  argument  that 
he  incidentally  used  had  as  much  effect  on  her  as  the  rest. 
"  This  Mr.  Butler,  if  yet  in  England,  may  pass  through  our  town — 
may  visit  amongst  us, — may  hear  you  spoken  of,  by  a  name 
similar  to  his  own,  and  curiosity  would  thus  induce  him  to  seek 
you.  Take  his  name,  and  you  will  always  bear  an  honorable  in- 
dex to  your  mutual  discovery  and  recognition.  Besides,  when 
you  are  respectable,  honored,  and  earning  an  independence,  he 
may  not  be  too  proud  to  marry  you.     But  take  your  own  name, 


134  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

avow  your  own  history,  and  not  only  will  your  child  be  an  out- 
cast, yourself  a  beggar,  or,  at  best  a  menial  dependant,  but  you 
lose  every  hope  of  recovering  the  object  of  your  loo  devoted 
attachment." 

Thus  Alice  was  convinced.  From  that  time  she  became  close 
and  reserved  in  her  communications.  Mrs.  Leslie  had  wisely 
selected  a  town  sufficiently  remote  from  her  own  abode  to  ])re- 
clude  any  revelations  of  her  domestics;  and,  as  Mrs.  Butler, 
.A.lice  attracted  universal  sympathy  and  respect  from  the  exer- 
cise of  her  talents,  the  modest  sweetness  of  her  manners,  the 
unblemished  propriety  of  her  conduct.  Somehow  or  other,  no 
sooner  did  she  learn  the  philosophy  of  concealment,  than  she 
made  a  great  leap  in  knowledge  of  the  world.     And,  though 

flattered  and  courted  by  the  young  loungers  of  C ,  she  steered 

her  course  with  so  much  address,  that  she  was  never  persecuted. 
For  there  are  few  men  in  the  world  who  make  advances  where 
there  is  no  encouragement. 

The  banker  observed  her  conduct  with  silent  vigilance.  He 
met  her  often,  he  visited  her  often.  He  was  intimate  at  houses 
where  she  attended  to  teach  or  perform.  He  lent  her  good 
books — he  advised  her — he  preached  to  her.  Alice  began  to 
look  up  to  him — to  like  him — to  consider  him,  as  a  village  girl 
in  Catholic  countries  may  consider  a  benevolent  and  kindly 
priest.  And  he — what  was  his  object? — at  that  time  it  is  im- 
possible to  guess:  he  became  thoughtful  and  abstracted. 

One  day  an  old  maid  and  an  old  clergyman  met  in  the  High 
Street  of  C . 

"And  how  do  you  do,  raa'am?"  said  the  clergyman;  "how 
is  the  rheumatism  ?  " 

"Better,  thank  you,  sir.     Any  news?" 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  something  hovered  on  his  lips, 
which  he  suppressed. 

"Were  you,"  the  old  maid  resumed,  "at  Mrs.  Macnab's  last 
night  ?     Charming  music  ?  " 

"Charming!  How  pretty  that  Mrs.  Butler  is!  And  how 
humble !     Knows  her  station — so  unlike  professional  people." 

"Yes,  indeed  ! — What  attention  a  certain  banker  paid  her  !" 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  yes  ;  he  is  very  fatherly — very  !  " 

"  Perhaps  he  will  marry  again;  he  is  always  talking  of  the  holy 
state  of  matrimony — a  holy  state  it  may  be — but  Heaven  knows, 
his  wife,  poor  woman,  did  not  make  it  a  pleasant  one." 

"  There  may  be  more  causes  for  that  than  we  guess  of,"  said  the 
clergyman,  mysteriously.    "  1  would  not  be  uncharitable,  but — " 

"But  what?" 


ERNEST    MALTkAVERS.  135 

"  Oh,  when  he  was  young,  our  great  man  was  not  so  correct, 
I  fancy,  as  he  is  now." 

"  So  I  have  heard  it  whispered  :  but  nothing  against  him  was 
ever  known." 

"  Hem — it  is  very  odd  !  " 

"  What's  very  odd  ? " 

"Why,  but  it's  a  secret — I  dare  say  it's  all  very  right." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  say  a  word.  Are  you  going  to  the  cathedral? — • 
don't  let  me  keep  you  standing.     Now,  pray  proceed  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  yesterday  I  was  doing  duty  in  a  village  more 
than  twenty  miles  hence,  and  I  loitered  in  the  village  to  take  an 
early  dinner;  and  afterward,  while  my  horse  was  feeding,  I 
strolled  down  the  green." 

"  Well— well  ? " 

"  And  I  saw  a  gentleman  muffled  carefully  up,  with  his  hat 
slouched  over  his  face,  at  the  door  of  a  cottage,  with  a  little 
child  in  his  arms,  and  he  kissed  it  more  fondly  than,  be  we  ever 
so  good,  we  generally  kiss  other  people's  children  ;  and  then  he 
gave  it  to  a  peasant  woman  standing  near  him,  and  mounted 
his  horse,  which  was  tied  to  the  gate,  and  trotted  past  me  ;  and 
who  do  you  think  this  was  ?  " 

"Patience  me — I  can't  guess  !  " 

"Why,  our  saintly  banker.  I  bowed  to  him,  and  I  assure 
you  he  turned  as  red,  ma'am,  as  your  waistband." 

"  My  ! "  . 

"  I  just  turned  into  the  cottage  when  he  was  out  of  sight,  for 
I  was  thirsty,  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  and  I  saw  the 
child.  I  declare,  I  would  not  be  uncharitable,  but  I  thought  it 
monstrous  like — you  know  whom  !  " 

"  Gracious,  you  don't  say — " 

"I  asked  the  woman  *  if  it  was  hers?*  and  she  said  *No,'  but 
was  very  short." 

"  Dear  me,  I  must  find  this  out ! — What  is  the  name  of  the 
village  ? " 

"  Covedale." 

"  Oh,  I  know— I  know." 

"  Not  a  word  of  this  ;  I  dare  say  there's  nothing  in  it.  But 
I  am  not  much  in  favor  of  your  new  lights." 

"  Nor  I  either.  What  better  than  the  good  old  Church  of 
England?" 

"  Madam,  your  sentiments  do  you  honor ;  you  will  be  sure 
not  to  say  anything  of  our  little  mystery." 

"  Not  a  syllable." 

Two  days  after  this,  three  old  maids  made  an  excursion  to 


1^6  ERNEST   MALTR AVERS. 

the  village  of  Covedale,  and  lo !  the  cottage  .n  question  was 
shut  up — the  woman  and  the  child  were  gone.  The  people  in 
the  village  knew  nothing  about  them — had  seen  nothing  par- 
ticular in  the  woman  or  child — had  always  supposed  them 
mother  and  daughter ;  and  the  gentleman  identified  by  the 
clerical  inquisitor  with  the  banker,  had  never  but  once  been 
observed  in  the  place. 

"  The  vile  old  parson,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  old  maids,  "  to 
take  away  so  good  a  man's  character ! — and  the  fly  will  cost  one 
pound  two,  with  the  baiting !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  In  this  disposition  was  I,  when  looking  out  of  my  window  one  day  to 
take  the  air,  I  perceived  a  kind  of  peasant  who  looked  at  me  very  attent- 
ively."— Gil  Blas. 

A  summer's  evening  in  a  retired  country  town  has  something 
melancholy  in  it.  You  have  the  streets  of  a  metropolis  without 
their  animated  bustle — you  have  the  stillness  of  the  country 
without  its  birds  and  flowers.     The  reader  will  please  to  bring 

before  him  a  quiet  street,  in  the  quiet  country  town  of  C , 

in  a  quiet  evening  in  quiet  June ;  the  picture  is  not  mirthful- 
two  young  dogs  are  playing  in  the  street,  one  old  dog  is  watch- 
ing by  a  newly  painted  door.  A  few  ladies  of  middle  age  move 
noiselessly  along  the  pavement,  returning  home  to  tea ;  they 
wear  white  muslin  dresses,  green  spencers  a  little  faded,  straw 
poke  bonnets,  with  green  or  coff'ee-colored  gauze  veils.  By 
twos  and  threes  they  have  disappeared  within  the  thresholds  of 
small,  neat  houses,  with  little  railings,  enclosing*  little  green 
plots.  Threshold,  house,  railing  and  plot,  each  as  like  to  the 
other  as  are  those  small  commodities  called  "nest  tables,"  which, 
"even  as  a  broken  mirror  multiplies,"  summon  to  the  bewildered 
eye  countless  iterations  of  one  four-legged  individual.  Paradise 
Place  was  a  set  of  nest  houses. 

A  cow  had  passed  through  the  streets  with  a  milk-woman 
behind;  two  young  and  gay  shopmen,  "looking  after  the 
gals,"  had  reconnoitred  the  street,  and  vanished  in  despair. 
The  twilight  advanced,  but  gently ;  and  though  a  star  or  two 
were  up,  the  air  was  still  clear.  At  the  open  windows  of  one 
of  the  tenements  in  this  street  sat  Alice  Darvil.  She  had  been 
working  (that  pretty  excuse  to  women  for  thinking),  and  as  the 
thoughts  grew  upon  her,  and  the  evening  waned,  the  work 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  137 

had  fallen  upon  her  knee,  and  her  hands  dropped  mechanically 
on  her  lap.  Her  profile  was  turned  towards  the  street ;  but 
without  moving  her  head  or  changing  her  attitude,  her  eyes 
glanced  from  time  to  time  to  her  little  girl,  who  nestled  on  the 
ground  beside  her,  tired  with  her  play ;  and  wondering,  per- 
haps, why  she  was  not  already  in  bed,  seemed  as  tranquil  as  the 
young  mother  herself.  And  sometimes  Alice's  eyes  filled  with 
tears — and  then  she  sighed,  as  if  to  sigh  the  tears  away.  But,  poor 
Alice,  if  she  grieved,  hers  was  now  a  silent  and  a  patient  grief! 
The  street  was  deserted  of  all  other  passengers,  when  a  man 
passed  along  the  pavement  on  the  side  opposite  to  Alice's  house. 
His  garb  was  rude  and  homely,  between  that  of  a  laborer  and  a 
farmer ;  but  still  there  was  an  affectation  of  tawdry  show  about 
the  bright  scarlet  silk  handkerchief,  tied,  in  a  sailor  or  smuggler 
fashion,  round  the  sinewy  throat;  the  hat  was  set  jauntily  on  one 
side,  and,  dangling  many  an  inch  from  the  gaily  striped  waist- 
coat, glittered  a  watch-chain  and  seals,  which  appeared  suspi- 
ciously out  of  character  with  the  rest  of  the  attire.  The  passen- 
ger was  covered  with  dust ;  and  as  the  street  was  in  a  suburb 
communicating  with  the  high-road,  and  formed  one  of  the 
entrances  into  the  town,  he  had  probably,  after  a  long  day's 
journey,  reached  his  evening's  destination.  The  looks  of  this 
stranger  were  anxious,  restless,  and  perturbed.  In  his  gait  and 
swagger  there  was  the  recklessness  of  the  professional  black- 
guard ;  but  in  his  vigilant,  prying  and  suspicious  eyes,  there  was 
a  hang-dog  expression  of  apprehension  and  fear.  He  seemed 
a  man  upon  whom  Crime  had  set  its  significant  mark — and  who 
saw  a  purse  with  one  eye  and  a  gibbet  with  the  other.  Alice  did 
not  note  the  stranger,  till  she  herself  had  attracted  and  centred 
all  his  attention.  He  halted  abruptly  as  he  caught  a  view  of 
her  face — shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  if  to  gaze  more  in- 
tently— and  at  length  burst  into  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
pleasure.  At  that  instant  Alice  turned,  and  her  eyes  met  those 
of  the  stranger.  The  fascination  of  the  basilisk  can  scarcely 
more  stun  and  paralyze  its  victim  than  the  look  of  this  stranger 
charmed,  with  the  appalling  glamory  of  horror,  the  eye  and  soul 
of  Alice  Darvil.  Her  face  became  suddenly  locked  and  rigid, 
her  lips  as  white  as  marble,  her  eyes  almost  started  from  their 
sockets — she  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  together,  and  shud- 
dered, but  still  she  did  not  move.  The  man  nodded  and  grinned, 
and  then,  deliberately  crossing  the  street,  gained  the  door,  and 
knocked  loudly.  Still  Alice  did  not  stir — her  senses  seemed 
to  have  forsaken  her — presently  the  stranger's  loud,  rough  voice 
was  heard  below,  in  answer  to  the  accents  of  the  solitary  woman- 


138  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

servant  whom  Alice  kept  in  her  employ;  and  his  strong,  heavy 
tread  made  the  slight  staircase  creak  and  tremble.  Then  Alice 
rose  as  by  an  instinct,  caught  her  child  in  lier  arms,  and  stood 
erect  and  motionless,  facing  the  door.  It  opened — and  the 
FATHER  and  DAUGHTER  Were  once  more  face  to  face  within 
the  same  walls. 

"  Well,  Alley,  how  are  you,  my  blowen  ? — glad  to  see  your 
old  dad  again,  I'll  be  sworn.  No  ceremony,  sit  down.  Ha,  ha, 
snug  here — very  snug — we  shall  live  together  charmingly.  Trade 
on  your  own  account — eh  ? — sly  ;  well,  can't  desert  your  poor 
old  father.     Let's  have  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

So  saying,  Darvil  threw  himself  at  length  upon  the  neat,  prim, 
little  chintz  sofa,  with  the  air  of  a  man  resolved  to  make  him- 
self perfectly  at  home. 

Alice  gazed  and  trembled  violently,  but  still  said  nothing — 
the  power  of  voice  had  indeed  left  her. 

"  Come,  v/hy  don't  you  stir  your  stumps  ?  I  suppose  I  must 
wait  on  myself — fine  manners  !  But,  ho,  ho — a  bell,  by  gosh — 
mighty  grand — never  mind — lam  used  to  call  for  my  own  wants." 

A  hearty  tug  at  the  frail  bell-rope  sent  a  thrill  of  alarm  half 
way  through  the  long  lath-and-plaster  row  of  Paradise  Place, 
and  left  the  instrument  of  sound  in  the  hand  of  its  creator. 

Up  came  the  maid  servant,  a  formal  old  woman,  most 
respectable. 

"  Harkye,  old  girl  !"  said  Darvil;  "bring  up  the  best  you 
have  to  eat — not  particular — let  there  be  plenty.  And  I  say — 
a  bottle  of  brandy.  Come,  don't  stand  there  staring  like  a  stuck 
pig.     Budge  !     Hell  and  furies,  don't  you  hear  me  ?" 

The  servant  retreated,  as  if  a  pistol  had  been  put  to  her  head, 
and  Darvil,  laughing  loud,  threw  himself  again  upon  the  sofa. 
Alice  looked  at  him,  and  still,  without  saying  a  word,  glided 
from  the  room — her  child  in  her  arms.  She  hurried  down-stairs, 
and  in  the  hall  met  her  servant.  The  latter,  who  was  much  at- 
tached to  her  mistress,  was  alarmed  to  see  her  about  to  leave  the 
house. 

"Why,  marm,  where  be  you  going  ?  Dear  heart,  you  have 
no  bonnet  on  !     What  is  the  matter  ?     Who  is  this  ?" 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Alice,  in  agony  ;  "  what  shall  I  do  ? — where  shall 
I  fly  ?"  The  door  above  opened.  Alice  heard,  started,  and  the 
next  moment  was  in  the  street.  She  ran  on  breathlessly,  and 
like  one  insane.  Her  mind,  was,  indeed,  for  the  time,  gone, 
and  had  a  river  flowed  before  her  way,  she  would  have  plunged 
into  an  escape  from  a  world  that  seemed  too  narrow  to  hold  a 
father  and  his  child. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


139 


But  just  as  she  turned  a  corner  of  the  street  that  led  into  the 
more  public  thoroughfares,  she  felt  her  arm  grasped,  and  a  voice 
called  out  her  name  in  surprised  and  startled  accents. 

"  Heavens,  Mrs.  Butler  !  Alice  !  What  do  I  see  ?  What  is 
the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  save  me  ! — you  are  a  good  man — a  great  man — save 
me — he  is  returned  !  " 

"  He  !  who  ? — Mr.  Butler  ? "  said  the  banker  (for  that  gentle- 
man it  was),  in  a  changed  and  trembling  voice. 

"  No,  no — ah,  not  he! — I  did  not  say  he — I  said  my  father — 
my,  my — ah — look  behind — look  behind — is  he  coming  ?" 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  young  friend — no  one  is  near.  I 
will  go  and  reason  with  your  father.  No  one  shall  harm  you — 
I  will  protect  you.  Go  back — go  back,  I  will  follow — we  must 
not  be  seen  together."  And  the  tall  banker  seemed  trying  to 
shrink  into  a  nutshell. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Alice,  growing  yet  paler,  "  I  cannot  go  back." 

"Well,  then,  just  follow  me  to  the  door — your  servant  shall 
get  you  your  bonnet  and  accompany  you  to  my  house,  where 
you  can  wait  till  I  return.  Meanwhile,  I  will  see  your  father, 
and  rid  you,  I  trust,  of  his  presence." 

The  banker,  who  spoke  in  a  very  hurried  and  even  impatient 
voice,  waited  for  no  reply,  but  took  his  way  to  Alice's  house. 
Alice  herself  did  not  follow,  but  remained  in  the  very  place 
where  she  was  left,  till  joined  by  her  servant,  who  then  con- 
ducted her  to  the  rich  man's  residence.  .  .  .  But  Alice's  mind 
had  not  recovered  its  shock,  and  her  thoughts  wandered  aiarm^ 
ingly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*^ Miramont. — Do  they  chafe  roundly? 

Andrew. — As  they  were  rubbed  with  soap,  sir. 
And  now  they  swear  aloud,  now  calm  again 
Like  a  ring  of  bells,  whose  sound  the  wind  still  utters, 
And  then  they  sit  in  council  what  to  do. 
And  then  they  jar  again  what  shall  be  done  !  " 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Oh!  what  a  picture  of  human  nature  it  was  when  the  banker 
and  the  vagabond  sat  together  in  that  little  drawing-room,  facing 
each  other, — one  in  the  ^rm-chair,  one  on  the  sofa  !  Darvil  was 
still  employed  on  some  cold  meat,  and  was  making  wry  faces  at 
the  very  indifferent  brandy  which  he  had  frightened  the  formal 
pld  servant  into  buying  at  the  nearest  public-hpuse  ;  and  oppo- 


14©  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

site  sat  the  respectable — highly  respectable  man  of  forms  and 
ceremonies,  of  decencies  and  quackeries,  gazing  gravely  upon 
this  low,  dare-devil  rufifian  :  the  well-to-do  hypocrite — the  pen- 
niless villain  ; — the  man  who  had  everything  to  lose — the  man 
who  had  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  his  own  mischievous, 
rascally  life,  a  gold  watch,  chain,  and  seals,  which  he  had  stolen 
the  day  before,  and  thirteen  shillings  and  threepence  halfpenny 
in  his  left  breeches  pocket ! 

The  man  of  wealth  was  by  no  means  well  acquainted  with 
the  nature  of  the  beast  before  him.  He  had  heard  from  Mrs. 
Leslie  (as  we  remember)  the  outline  of  Alice's  history,  and 
ascertained  that  their  joint  protc^ee^s  father  was  a  great  black- 
guard ;  but  he  expected  to  find  Mr.  Darvil  a  mere  dull,  brutish 
villain,  a  peasant-ruffian — a  blunt  serf,  without  brains,  or  their 
substitute,  effrontery.  But  Luke  Darvil  was  a  clever,  half-edu- 
cated fellow  :  he  did  not  sin  from  ignorance,  but  had  wit  enough 
to  have  bad  principles,  and  he  was  as  impudent  as  if  he  had 
lived  all  his  life  in  the  best  society.  He  was  not  frightened  at 
the  banker's  drab  breeches  and  imposing  air — not  he  !  The 
Duke  of  Wellington  would  not  have  frightened  Luke  Darvil, 
unless  his  grace  had  had  the  constables  for  his  aides-de-camp. 

The  banker,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  was  "taken  aback." 

"  Look  you  here,  Mr.  What's- your-name  !"  said  Darvil,  swal- 
lowing a  glass  of  the  raw  alcohol  as  if  it  had  been  water — 
"look  you  now — you  can't  humbug  me.  What  the  devil  do  you 
care  about  my  daughter's  respectability,  or  comfort,  or  anything 
else,  grave  old  dog  as  you  are  ! — It  is  my  daughter  herself  you 
are  licking  your  brown  old  chaps  at ! — and  'faith,  my  Alley  is 
a  very  pretty  girl — very — but  queer  as  moonshine.  You'll  drive 
a  much  better  bargain  with  me  than  with  her." 

The  banker  colored  scarlet — he  bit  his  lips  and  measured  his 
companion  from  head  to  foot  (while  the  latter  lolled  on  tlie  sofa), 
as  if  he  were  meditating  the  possibility  of  kicking  him  down- 
stairs. But  Luke  Darvil  would  have  thrashed  the  banker,  and 
all  his  clerks  into  the  bargain.  His  frame  was  like  a  trunk  of 
thews  and  muscles,  packed  up  by  that  careful  dame.  Nature,  as 
tightly  as  possible  ;  and  a  prize-fighter  would  have  thought  twice 
before  he  would  have  entered  the  ring  against  so  awkward  a 
customer.  The  banker  was  a  man  prudent  to  a  fault,  and  he 
pushed  his  chair  six  inches  back,  as  he  concluded  his  survey. 

"  Sir,"  then  said  he,  very  quietly, "  do  not  let  us  misunderstand 
each  other.  Your  daughter  is  safe  from  your  control — if  you 
molest  her,  the  law  will  protect — " 

"  §h^  is  not  of  age,"  sai4  Darvil,     '*  Vpur  health,  old  boy." 


ERNliST    MA  LIRA  VERS.  14 1 

"Whether  she  is  of  age  or  not,"  returned  the  banker,  unheed- 
ing the  courtesy  conveyed  in  the  last  sentence,  "  I  do  not  care 
three  straws — I  know  enough  of  the  law  to  know,  that  if  she 
have  rich  friends  in  this  town,  and  you  have  none,  she  will  be 
protected,  and  you  will  go  to  the  treadmill." 

"  That  is  spoken  like  a  sensible  man,"  said  Darvil,  for  the  first 
time  with  a  show  of  respect  in  his  manner;  "you  now  take  a  prac- 
tical view  of  matters,  as  we  used  to  say  at  the  spouting-club." 

"If  I  were  in  your  situation,  Mr.  Darvil,  I  tell  you  what  I 
would  do.  I  would  leave  my  daughter  and  this  town  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I  would  promise  never  to  return,  and  never  to 
molest  her,  on  condition  she  allowed  me  a  certain  sum  from  her 
earnings,  paid  quarterly." 

"  And  if  I  preferred  living  with  her  ?" 

"  In  that  case,  I,  as  a  magistrate  of  this  town,  would  have  you 
sent  away  as  a  vagrant,  or  apprehended — " 

"Ha!" 

"  Apprehended  on  suspicion  of  stealing  that  gold  chain  and 
seals  which  you  wear  so  ostensibly." 

"  By  goles,  but  you're  a  clever  fellow,"  said  Darvil,  involun- 
tarily ;  "  you  know  human  natur'." 

The  banker  smiled  :  strange  to  say,  he  was  pleased  with  the 
compliment. 

"  But,"  resumed  Darvil,  helping  himself  to  another  slice  of 
beef,  "  you  are  in  the  wrong  box — planted  in  Queer  Street,  as 
7ve  say  in  London  ;  for  if  you  care  a  d — n  about  my  daughter's 
respectability,  you  will  never  muzzle  her  father  on  suspicion  of 
theft — and  so  there's  tit  for  tat,  old  gentleman  ! " 

"  I  shall  deny  that  you  are  her  father,  Mr.  Darvil,  and  I  think 
you  will  find  it  hard  to  prove  the  fact  in  any  town  where  I  am 
a  magistrate." 

"  By.  goles,  what  a  good  prig  you  would  have  made  !  You 
are  as  sharp  as  a  gimlet.  Surely  you  were  brought  up  at  the 
Old  Bailey  !  " 

"  Mr.  Darvil,  be  ruled.  You  seem  a  man  not  deaf  to  reason, 
and  I  ask  you  whether,  in  any  town  in  this  country,  a  poor  man 
in  suspicious  cirumstances  can  do  anything  against  a  rich  man 
whose  character  is  established  ?  Perhaps  you  are  right  in  the 
main  :  I  have  nothing  to  do  v/ith  that.  But  I  tell  you  that  you 
shall  quit  this  house  in  half  an  hour — that  you  shall  never  enter 
it  again  but  at  your  peril ;  and  if  you  do — within  ten  minutes 
from  that  time  you  shall  be  in  the  town  gaol.  It  is  no  longer 
a  contest  between  you  and  your  defenceless  daughter ;  it  is  a 
contest  between — " 


t4i  fiRNESt   MALTRAVERS. 

"A  tramp  in  fustian,  and  a  gemman  as  drives  a  coach,"  in- 
terrupted Darvil,  laughing  bitterly,  yet  heartily.  "  Good — good !" 

The  banker  rose.  "  I  think  you  have  made  a  very  clever  defi- 
nition," said  he.  "  Half  an  hour — you  recollect — good-evening." 

"Stay,"  said  Darvil;  "you  are  the  first  man  I  have  seen  for 
many  a  year  that  I  can  take  a  fancy  to.  Sit  down — sit  down, 
I  say,  and  talk  a  bit,  and  we  shall  come  to  terms  soon,  I  dare 
say  : — that's  right.  Lord  !  how  I  should  like  to  have  you  on  the 
roadside  instead  of  within  thesefourgimcrack  walls.  Ha!  ha! 
the  argufying  would  be  all  in  my  favor  then." 

The  banker  was  not  a  brave  man,  and  his  color  changed 
Siightly  at  the  intimation  of  this  obliging  wish.  Darvil  eyed  him 
grimly  and  chucklingly. 

The  rich  man  resumed  :  "  That  may  or  may  not  be,  Mr.  Dar- 
vil, according  as  I  might  happen  or  not  to  have  pistols  about 
me.  But  to  the  point.  Quit  this  house  without  further  debate, 
without  noise,  without  mentioning  to  any  one  else  your  claim 
upon  its  owner — " 

"  Well,  and  the  return  ? " 

"Ten  guineas  now,  and  the  same  sum  quarterly,  as  long  as 
the  young  lady  lives  in  this  town,  and  you  never  persecute  her 
by  word  or  letter." 

"That  is  forty  guineas  a  year,     I  can't  live  upon  it." 

"You  will  cost  less  in  the  House  of  Correction,  Mr.  Darvil." 

"Come,  make  it  a  hundred  :  Alley  is  cheap  at  that." 

"Not  a  farthing  more,"  said  the  banker,  buttoning  up  his 
breeches-pockets  with  a  determined  air. 

"Well,  out  with  the  shiners." 

"Do  you  promise  or  not?" 

"I  promise." 

"  There  are  your  ten  guineas.  If  in  half  an  hour  you  are  not 
gone — why  then — " 

"Then?" 

"  Why  then  you  have  robbed  me  of  ten  guineas,  and  must  take 
the  usual  consequences  of  robbery." 

Darvil  started  to  his  feet — his  eyes  glared — he  grasped  the 
carving-knife  before  him. 

"  You  are  a  bold  fellow,"  said  the  banker  quietly;  "  but  it  won't 
do.  It  is  not  worth  your  while  to  murder  me  ;  and  I  am  a  man 
sure  to  be  missed." 

Darvil  sunk  down,  sullen  and  foiled.  The  respectable  man 
was  more  than  a  match  for  the  villain. 

"  Had  you  been  as  poor  as  I, — Gad  !  what  a  rogue  you  would 
have  been ! " 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  143 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  banker;  "I  beh'eve  roguery  to  be  a 
very  bad  policy.  Perhaps  once  I  was  almost  as  poor  as  you  are, 
but  I  never  turned  rogue." 

"You  never  were  in  my  circumstances,"returned  Darvil,  gloom- 
ily. "  I  was  a  gentleman's  son.  Come,  you  shall  hear  my  story. 
My  father  was  well-born,  but  married  a  maid-servant  when  he 
was  at  college  ;  his  family  disowned  him,  and  left  him  to  starve. 
He  died  in  the  struggle  against  a  poverty  he  was  not  brought  up 
to,  and  my  dame  went  into  service  again  ;  became  housekeeper 
to  an  old  bachelor — sent  me  to  school — but  mother  had  a  family 
by  the  old  bachelor,  and  I  was  taken  from  school  and  put  to  trade. 
All  hated  me — for  I  was  ugly  ;  damn  them  !  Mother  cut  me — 
I  wanted  money — robbed  the  old  bachelor — was  sent  to  gaol, 
and  learned  there  a  lesson  or  two  how  to  rob  better  in  the  fu- 
ture. Mother  died, — I  was  adrift  in  the  world.  The  world  was 
my  foe — could  not  make  it  up  with  the  world,  so  we  went  to 
war  ; — you  understand,  old  boy  ?  Married  a  poor  woman  and 
pretty ; — wife  made  me  jealous — had  learned  to  suspect  every 
one.  Alice  born — did  not  believe  her  mine  ;  not  like  me — per- 
haps a  gentleman's  child.  I  hate — I  loathe  gentlemen.  Got 
drunk  one  night — kicked  my  wife  in  the  stomach  three  weeks 
after  her  confinement.  Wife  died — tried  for  my  life — got  off. 
Went  to  another  county — having  had  a  sort  of  education,  and 
being  sharp  eno',  got  work  as  a  mechanic.  Hated  work  just  as 
I  hated  gentlemen — for  was  I  not  by  blood  a  gentleman  ?  There 
was  the  curse.     Alice  grew  up  ;  never  looked  on  her  as  my  flesh 

and  blood.     Her  mother  was  a  w !     Why  should  not  she  be 

one?  There,  that's  enough.  Plenty  of  excuse,  I  think,  for  all 
1  have  ever  done.  Curse  the  world — curse  the  rich — curse  the 
handsome — curse — curse  all ! " 

"You  have  been  a  very  foolish  man,"  said  the  banker;  "and  seem 
to  me  to  have  had  very  good  cards,  if  you  had  known  how  to  play 
them.  However,  that  is  your  look-out.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  to 
repent ; — age  is  creeping  on  you. — Man,  there  is  another  world," 

The  banker  said  the  last  words  with  a  tone  of  solemn  and  even 
dignified  adjuration, 

"You  think  so — do  you?"  said  Darvil,  staring  at  him. 

"From  my  soul  I  do." 

"Then  you  are  not  the  sensible  man  I  took  you  for,"  replied 
Darvil  dryly  ;  "and  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  on  that  subject," 

But  our  Dives,  however  sincere  a  believer,  was  by  no  means  one 

"  At  whose  control 
Despair  and  Anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul," 

He  had  words  of  comfort  for  the  pious,  but  he  had  nope  fgr  the 


144  £rnest  maltravers. 

sceptic — he  could  soothe,  but  he  could  not  convert.  It  was  not 
in  his  way;  besides,  he  saw  no  credit  in  making  a  convert  of  Luke 
Darvil.  Accordingly,  he  again  rose  with  some  quickness,  and 
said — 

"  No,  sir  ;  that  is  useless,  I  fear,  and  I  have  no  time  to  spare ; 
and  so  once  more,  good-night  to  you." 

"  But  you  have  not  arranged  where  my  allowance  is  to  be  sent." 

"Ah  !  true  ;  I  will  guarantee  it.  You  will  find  my  name  suf- 
ficient security." 

"At  least,  it  is  the  best  I  can  get,"  returned  Darvil,  carelessly; 
"and,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  bad  chance  day's  work.  But  I'm  sure 
I  can't  say  where  the  money  shall  be  sent.  I  don't  know  a  man 
who  would  not  grab  it." 

"Very  well,  then — the  best  thing  (I  speak  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness) will  be  to  draw  on  me  for  ten  guineas,  quarterly.  Wher- 
ever you  are  staying,  any  banker  can  effect  this  for  you.  But 
mind,  if  ever  you  overdraw,  the  account  stops." 

"I  understand,"  said  Darvil ;  "and  when  I  have  finished  the 
bottle  I  shall  be  off." 

"You  had  better,"  replied  the  banker,  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

The  rich  man  returned  home  hurriedly.  "  So  Alice,  after  all, 
has  some  gentle  blood  in  her  veins,"  thought  he,  "But  that 
father — no,  it  will  never  do,  I  wish  he  were  hanged  and  no- 
body the  wiser.  I  should  very  much  like  to  arrange  the  matter 
without  marrying  ;  but  then — scandal — scandal — scandal.  After 
all,  I  had  better  give  up  all  thoughts  of  her.  She  is  monstrous 
handsome,  and  so — humph  ! — I  shall  never  grow  an  old  man." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Began  to  bend  down  his  admiring  eyes 

On  all  her  touching  looks  and  qualities. 

Turning  their  shapely  sweetness  every  way 

Till  'twas  his  food  and  habit  day  by  day." — Leigh  Hunt. 

There  must  have  been  a  secret  something  about  Alice  Darvil 
singularly  captivating,  that  (associated  as  she  was  with  images 
of  the  most  sordid  and  the  vilest  crimes)  left  her  still  pure  and 
lovely  alike  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  as  fastidious  as  Ernest  Mal- 
travers, and  of  a  man  as  influenced  by  all  the  thoughts  and  the- 
ories of  the  world,  as  the  shrewd  banker  of  C .  Amidst  things 

foul  and  hateful  had  sprung  up  this  beautiful  flower,  as  if  to  pre- 
serve the  inherent  heavenliness  and  grace  of  human  nature,  and 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  t45 

proclaim  the  handiwork  of  God  in  scenes  where  human  nature 
had  been  most  debased  by  the  abuses  of  social  art ;  and  where 
the  light  of  God  himself  was  most  darkened  and  obscured.  That 
such  contrasts,  though  rarely  and  as  by  chance,  are  found,  every 
one  who  has  carefully  examined  the  wastes  and  deserts  of  life 
must  own.  I  have  drawn  Alice  Darvil  scrupulously  from  life, 
and  I  can  declare  that  I  have  not  exaggerated  hue  nor  lineament 
in  the  portrait.  I  do  not  suppose,  with  our  good  banker,  that  she 
owed  anything,  unless  it  might  be  a  greater  delicacy  of  form  and 
feature,  to  whatever  mixture  of  gentle  blood  was  in  her  veins. 
But,  somehow  or  other,  in  her  original  conformation  there  was 
the  happy  bias  of  the  plants  towards  the  Pure  and  the  Bright. 
For,  despite  Helvetius,  a  common  experience  teaches  us  lliat 
though  education  and  circumstances  may  mould  the  mass,  Na- 
ture herself  sometimes  forms  the  individual,  and  throws  into  the 
clay,  or  its  spirit,  so  much  of  beauty  or  deformity,  that  nothing 
can  utterly  subdue  the  original  elements  of  character.  From 
sweets  one  draws  poison — from  poisons  another  extracts  but 
sweets.  But  I,  often  deeply  pondering  over  the  psychological  his- 
tory of  Alice  Darvil,  think  that  one  principal  cause  why  she  es- 
caped the  early  contaminations  around  her,  was  in  the  slow  and 
protracted  development  of  her  intellectual  faculties.  Whether 
or  not  the  brutal  violence  of  her  father  had  in  childhood  acted 
through  her  nerves  upon  the  brain,  certain  it  is  that  until  she  knew 
Maltravers — until  she  loved — till  she  was  cherished — her  mind 
had  seemed  torpid  and  locked  up.  True,  Darvil  had  taught  her 
nothing,  nor  permitted  her  to  be  taught  anything ;  but  that  mere 
ignorance  would  have  been  no  preservation  to  a  quick,  obser- 
vant mind.  It  was  the  bluntness  of  the  senses  themselves  that 
operated  like  an  armor  between  her  mind  and  the  vile  things 
around  her.  It  was  the  rough,  dull  covering  of  the  chrysalis, 
framed  to  bear  rude  contact  and  biting  weather,  that  the  but- 
terfly might  break  forth,  winged  and  glorious,  in  due  season.  Had 
Alice  been  a  quick  child,  Alice  would  have  probably  grown  up  a 
depraved  and  dissolute  woman  ;  but  she  comprehended,  slie  un- 
derstood little  or  nothing,  till  she  found  an  inspirer  in  that  affec- 
tion which  inspires  both  beast  and  man  ;  which  makes  the  dog 
(in  his  natural  state  one  of  the  meanest  of  the  savage  race)  a 
companion,  a  guardian,  a  protector,  and  raises  Instinct  half-way 
to  the  height  of  Reason. 

The  banker  had  a  strong  regard  for  Alice  ;  and  when  he 
reached  liome,  he  heard  with  great  pain  that  she  was  in  a  high 
state  of  fever.  She  remained  beneath  his  roof  that  night,  and 
the  elderly  gentkwoman,  his  relation  and  gouvernantey  attended 


146  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

her.  The  banker  slept  but  little ;  and  the  next  morning  his 
countenance  was  unusually  pale. 

Towards  daybreak  Alice  had  fallen  into  a  sound  and  refresh- 
ing sleep  ;  and  when,  on  waking,  she  found,  by  a  note  from  her 
host,  that  her  father  had  left  her  house,  and  she  might  return 
in  safety  and  without  fear,  a  violent  flood  of  tears,  followed  by 
long  and  grateful  prayer,  contributed  to  the  restoration  of  her 
mind  and  nerves.  Imperfect  as  this  young  woman's  notions  of 
abstract  right  and  wrong  still  were,  she  was  yet  sensible  to  the 
claims  of  a  father  (no  matter  how  criminal)  upon  his  child  :  for 
feelings  with  her  were  so  good  and  true,  that  they  supplied  in 
a  great  measure  the  place  of  principles.  She  knew  that  she 
could  not  have  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  her  dreadful 
parent ;  but  still  she  felt  an  uneasy  remorse  at  thinking  he  had 
been  driven  from  that  roof  in  destitution  and  want.  She  hast- 
ened to  dress  herself  and  seek  an  audience  with  her  protector ; 
and  the  latter  found  with  admiration  and  pleasure  that  he  had 
anticipated  her  own  instantaneous  and  involuntary  design  in  the 
settlement  upon  Darvil.  He  then  communicated  to  Alice  the 
compact  he  had  already  formed  with  her  father,  and  she  wept 
and  kissed  his  hand  when  she  heard,  and  secretly  resolved  that 
she  would  work  hard  to  be  enabled  to  increase  the  sum  allowed. 
Oh,  if  her  labors  could  serve  to  retrieve  a  parent  from  the 
necessity  of  darker  resources  for  support !  Alas !  when  crime 
has  become  a  custom,  it  is  like  gaming  or  drinking — the  excite- 
ment is  wanting ;  and  had  Luke  Darvil  been  suddenly  made 
inheritor  of  the  wealth  of  a  Rothschild,  he  would  either  still 
have  been  a  villain  in  one  way  or  the  other ;  or  ennui  would 
have  awakened  conscience,  and  he  would  have  died  of  the 
change  of  habit. 

Our  banker  always  seemed  more  struck  by  Alice's  moral  feel- 
ings than  even  by  her  physical  beauty.  Her  love  for  her  child, 
for  instance,  impressed  him  powerfully,  and  he  always  gazed 
upon  her  with  softer  eyes  when  he  saw  her  caressing  or  nursing  the 
little  fatherless  creature,  whose  health  was  now  delicate  and  pre- 
carious. It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  he  was  absolutely  in  love 
with  Alice ;  the  phrase  is  too  strong,  perhaps,  to  be  applied  to 
a  man  past  fifty,  who  had  gone  through  emotions  and  trials 
enough  to  wear  away  freshness  from  his  heart.  His  feelings 
altogether  for  Alice,  the  designs  he  entertained  towards  her, 
were  of  a  very  complicated  nature ;  and  it  will  be  long,  perhaps,  be- 
fore the  reader  can  thoroughly  comprehend  them.  He  conducted 
Alice  home  that  day;  but  he  said  little  by  the  way,  perhaps  be- 
cause his  female  relation,  for  appearance'  sake,  accompanied 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  147 

them  also.  He,  however,  briefly  cautioned  Alice  on  no  account 
to  communicate  to  any  one  that  it  was  her  father  who  had  been 
her  visitor ;  and  she  still  shuddered  too  much  at  the  remin- 
iscence to  appear  likely  to  converse  on  it.  The  banker  also 
judged  it  advisable  to  be  so  far  confidential  with  Alice's  ser- 
vant as  to  take  her  aside,  and  to  tell  her  that  the  inauspicious 
stranger  of  the  previous  evening  had  been  a  very  distant  rela- 
tion of  Mrs.  Butler,  who,  from  a  habit  of  drunkenness,  had 
fallen  into  evil  and  disorderly  courses.  The  banker  added 
with  a  sanctified  air  that  he  trusted,  by  a  little  serious  conversa- 
tion, he  had  led  the  poor  man  to  better  notions,  and  that  he 
had  gone  home  with  an  altered  mind  to  his  family.  "But,  my 
good  Hannah,"  he  concluded,  "you  know  you  are  a  superior 
person,  and  above  the  vulgar  sin  of  indiscriminate  gossip ; 
therefore,  mention  what  has  occurred  to  no  one ;  it  can  do  no 
good  to  Mrs.  Butler — it  may  hurt  the  man  himself,  who  is  well- 
to-do — better  off  than  he  seems ;  and  who,  I  hope,  with 
grace,  may  be  a  sincere  penitent ;  and  it  will  also — but 
that  is  nothing — very  seriously  displease  me.  By  the  bye, 
Hannah,  I  shall  be  able  to  get  your  grandson  into  the  Free 
School." 

The  banker  was  shrewd  enough  to  perceive  that  he  had 
carried  his  point ;  and  he  was  walking  home  satisfied,  on  the 
whole,  with  the  way  matters  had  been  arranged,  when  he  was 
met  by  a  brother  magistrate. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  latter,  "and  how  are  you,  my  good  sir?  Do 
you  know  that  we  have  had^the  Bow  Street  officers  here,  in  search 
of  a  notorious  villain  who  has  broken  from  prison  ?  He  is  one 
of  the  most  determined  and  dexterous  burglars  in  all  England, 
and  the  runners  have  hunted  him  into  our  town.  His  very  rob- 
beries have  tracked  him  by  the  way.  He  robbed  a  gentleman 
the  day  before  yesterday  of  his  watch,  and  left  him  for  dead  on 
the  road — this  was  not  thirty  miles  hence." 

"Bless  me!"  said  the  banker,  with  emotion  ;  "and  what  is 
the  wretch's  name?" 

"  Why,  he  has  as  many  aliases  as  a  Spanish  grandee  ;  but  I 
believe  the  last  name  he  has  assumed  is  Peter  Watts." 

"Oh!"  said  our  friend,  relieved, — "well,  have  the  runners 
found  him?" 

"  No,  but  they  are  on  his  scent.  A  fellow  answering  to  his 
description  was  seen  by  the  man  at  the  toll-bar,  at  daybreak 

this   morning,  on   the  way  to   F ;    the   officers   are  after 

him." 

"  I  hope  he  may  meet  with  his  deserts — and  crime  is  never 


148  tRNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

unpunished,  even  in  this  world.  My  best  compliments  to  your 
lady; — and  how  is  little  Jack? — Well!  glad  to  hear  it — fine 
boy,  little  Jack  ! — Good-day." 

"  Good-day,  my  dear  sir.     Worthy  man,  that !  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  But  who  is  this  ?  thought  he,  a  demon  vile, 

With  wicked  meaning  and  a  vulgar  style  ; 

Hammond  they  call  him — they  can  give  the  name 

Of  man  to  devils  ; — Why  am  I  so  tame  ? 

Why  crush  I  not  the  viper  ?     Fear  replied, 

Watch  him  awhile,  and  let  his  strength  be  tried." — CrAbbe. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  the  banker  took  his  horse — 
a  crop-eared,  fast-trotting  hackney — and  merely  leaving  word 
that  he  was  going  upon  business  into  the  country,  and  should  not 
return  to  dinner,  turned  his  back  on  the  spires  of  C . 

He  rode  slowly,  for  the  day  was  hot.  The  face  of  the  coun- 
try, which  was  fair  and  smiling,  might  have  tempted  others  to 
linger  by  the  way  ;  but  our  hard  and  practical  man  of  the  world 
was  more  influenced  by  the  weather  than  the  loveliness  of  the 
scenery.  He  did  not  look  upon  Nature  with  the  eye  of  imagi- 
nation ;  perhaps  a  railroad,  had  it  then  and  there  existed,  would 
have  pleased  him  better  than  the  hanging  woods,  the  shadowy 
valleys,  and  the  changeful  river  that  from  time  to  time  beautified 
the  landscape  on  either  side  of  the  road.  But,  after  all,  there  is 
a  vast  deal  of  hypocrisy  in  the  affected  admiration  for  Nature ; — 
and  I  don't  think  one  person  in  a  hundred  cares  for  what  lies 
by  the  side  of  a  road,  so  long  as  the  road  itself  is  good,  hills 
levelled,  and  turnpikes  cheap. 

It  was  mid-noon,  and  many  miles  had  been  passed,  whtn  the 
banker  turned  down  a  green  lane  and  quickened  his  pace.  At 
the  end  of  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  he  arrived  at  a  little 
solitary  inn,  called  "The  Angler," — put  up  his  horse,  ordered 
his  dinner  at  six  o'clock — begged  to  borrow  a  basket  to  hold 
his  fish — and  it  was  then  apparent  that  a  longish  cane  he  had 
carried  with  him  was  capable  of  being  extended  into  a  fishing 
rod.  He  fitted  in  the  various  joints  with  care,  as  if  to  be  sure 
no  accident  had  happened  to  the  implement  by  the  journey — 
pried  anxiously  "into  the  contents  of  a  black  case  of  lines  and 
flies — slung  the  basket  be!  ind  his  back,  and  while  his  horse  was 
putting  down  his  nose  and  whisking  about  his  tail,  in  the  course 
of  those  nameless  coquetries  that  horses  carry  on  with  hostlers— 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  149 

our  worthy  brother  of  the  rod  strode  rapidly  through  some  green 
fields,  gained  the  river-side,  and  began  fishing  with  semblance 
of  earnest  interest  in  the  sport.  He  had  caught  one  trout, 
seemingly  by  accident — for  the  astonished  fish  was  hooked  up 
on  the  outside  of  its  jaw — probably  while  in  the  act,  not  of  bit- 
ing, but  of  gazing  at,  the  bait,  when  he  grew  discontented  with 
the  spot  he  had  selected  ;  and,  after  looking  round  as  if  to  con- 
vince  himself  that  he  was  not  liable  to  be  disturbed  or  observed 
(a  thought  hateful  to  the  fishing  fraternity),  he  stole  quickly 
along  the  margin,  and  finally  quitting  the  river-side  altogether, 
struck  into  a  path  that,  after  a  sharp  walk  of  nearly  an  hour, 
brought  him  to  the  door  of  a  cottage.  He  knocked  twice,  then 
entered  of  his  own  accord — nor  was  it  till  the  summer  sun  was 
near  its  decline  that  the  banker  regained  his  inn.  His  simple 
dinner,  which  they  had  delayed  in  wonder  at  the  protracted 
absence  of  the  angler,  and  in  expectation  of  the  fishes  he 
was  to  bring  back  to  be  fried,  was  soon  despatched ;  his 
horse  was  ordered  to  the  door,  and  the  red  clouds  in  the 
west  already  betokened  the  lapse  of  another  day,  as  he 
spurred  from  the  spot  on  the  fast-trotting  hackney,  fourteen 
miles  an  hour. 

"That  ere  gemman  has  a  nice  bit  of  blood,"  said  the  hostler, 
scratching  his  ear. 

"  Oiy, — who  be  he  ?"  said  a  hanger-on  of  the  stables. 

"  I  dooant  know.  He  has  been  here  twice  afoar,  and  he  nevei 
cautches  anything  to  sinnify — he  be  mighty  fond  of  fishing, 
sure/y." 

Meanwhile,  away  sped  the  banker — milestone  on  milestone 
glided  by — and  still,  scarce  turning  a  hair,  trotted  gallantly  out 
the  good  hackney.  But  the  evening  grew  darker,  and  it  began 
to  rain  ;  a  drizzling,  persevering  rain,  that  wets  a  man  through 
ere  he  is  aware  of  it.  After  his  fiftieth  year,  a  gentleman  who 
has  a  tender  regard  for  himself  does  not  like  to  get  wet ;  and 
the  rain  inspired  the  banker,  who  was  subject  to  rheumatism, 
with  the  resolution  to  make  a  short  cut  along  the  fields.  There 
were  one  or  two  low  hedges  by  this  short  way,  but  the  banker 
had  been  therein  the  spring,  and  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground. 
The  hackney  leaped  easily — and  the  rider  had  a  tolerably  prac- 
tised seat — and  two  miles  saved  might  just  prevent  the  menaced 
rheumatism  ;  accordingly,  our  friend  opened  a  white  gate,  and 
scoured  along  the  fields  without  any  misgivings  as  to  the  pru- 
dence of  his  choice.  He  arrived  at  his  first  leap — there  was  the 
hedge,  its  summit  just  discernible  in  the  dim  light.  On  the  other 
side,  to  the  right,  was  a  haystack,  and  close  by  this  haystack 


150  EKNt-Si    MALTRAVEKS. 

seemed  the  most  eligible  place  for  clearing  this  obstacle.  Now 
since  the  banker  had  visited  this  place,  a  deep  ditch,  that  served 
as  a  drain,  had  been  dug  at  the  opposite  base  of  the  hedge,  of 
which  neither  horse  nor  man  was  aware,  so  that  the  leap  was  far 
more  perilous  than  was  anticipated.  Unconscious  of  this  addi- 
tional obstacle,  the  rider  set  off  in  a  canter.  The  banker  was 
high  in  air,  his  loins  bent  back,  his  rein  slackened,  his  right  hand 
raised  knowingly — when  the  horse  took  fright  at  an  object 
crouched  by  the  haystack — swerved,  plunged  midway  into  the 
ditch,  and  pitched  its  rider  two  or  three  yards  over  its  head. 
The  banker  recovered  himself  sooner  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected ;  and,  finding  himself,  though  bruised  and  shaken,  still 
whole  and  sound,  hastened  to  his  horse.  But  the  poor  animal 
had  not  fared  so  well  as  its  master,  and  its  off- shoulder  was 
either  put  out  or  dreadfully  sprained.  It  had  scrambled  its  way 
out  of  the  ditch,  and  there  it  stood  disconsolate  by  the  hedge, 
as  lame  as  one  of  the  trees  that,  at  irregular  intervals,  broke  the 
symmetry  of  the  barrier.  On  ascertaining  the  extent  of  his  mis- 
fortune, the  banker  became  seriously  uneasy;  the  rain  increased — 
he  was  several  miles  yet  from  home — he  was  in  the  midst  of 
houseless  fields,  with  another  leap  before  him — the  leap  he  had 
just  passed  behind — and  no  other  egress  that  he  knew  of  into 
the  main  road.  While  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  brain, 
he  became  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  not  alone.  The  dark 
object  that  had  frightened  his  horse  rose  slowly  from  the  snug 
corner  it  had  occupied  by  the  haystack,  and  a  gruft"  voice  that 
made  the  banker  thrill  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  cried,  "Hallo  ! 
who  the  devil  are  you?" 

Lame  as  his  horse  was,  the  banker  instantly  put  his  foot  into 
the  stirrup  ;  but  before  he  could  mount,  a  heavy  gripe  was  laid 
on  his  shoulder — and  turning  around  with  as  much  fierceness 
as  he  could  assume,  he  saw — what  the  tone  of  the  voice  had 
already  led  him  to  forebode — the  ill-omened  and  cut-throat  fea- 
tures of  Luke  Darvil. 

**  Ha !  ha  !  my  old  annuitant,  ray  clever  feelosofer — jolly  old 
boy — how  are  you  ? — give  us  a  fist.  Who  could  have  thought  to 
meet  you  on  a  rainy  night,  by  a  lone  haystack,  with  a  deep  ditch 
on  one  side,  and  no  chimney-pot  within  sight?  Why,  old  fel- 
low, I,  Luke  Darvil — I,  the  vagabond — I,  whom  you  could  have 
sent  to  the  treadmill  for  being  poor,  and  calling  on  my  own 
daughter — I  am  as  rich  as  you  are  here — and  as  great,  and  as 
strong,  and  as  powerful !  " 

And  while  he  spoke,  Darvil,  who  was  really  an  under-sized 
man,  seemed  to  swell  and  dilate^  till  he  appeared  half  a  head 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I5I 

taller  than  the  shrinking  banker,  who  was  five  feet  eleven  inches 
without  his  shoes. 

"  E — hem  ! "  said  the  rich  man,  clearing  his  throat,  which 
seemed  to  him  uncommonly  husky ;  "  I  do  not  know  whether  I 
insulted  your  poverty,  my  dear  Mr.  Darvil — I  hope  not  ;  but 
this  is  hardly  a  time  for  talking — please  let  me  mount,  and — " 

"Not  a  time  for  talking?"  interrupted  Darvil,  angrily;  "it's 
just  the  time  to  my  mind  ;  let  me  consider, — ay,  I  told  you,  that 
whenever  we  met  by  the  roadside,  it  would  be  my  turn  to  have 
the  best  of  the  argufying." 

"  I  dare  say — I  dare  say,  my  good  fellow." 

"  Fellow  not  me  ! — I  won't  be  fellowed  now.  I  say  I  have  the 
best  of  it  here — man  to  man — I  am  your  match." 

"  But  why  quarrel  with  me  ?  "  said  the  banker,  coaxingly  ;  "  I 
never  meant  you  harm,  and  I  am  sure  you  cannot  mean  me 
harm." 

"  No  ! — and  why  ? "  asked  Darvil,  coolly  ; — "  why  do  you  think 
I  can  mean  you  no  harm  ?" 

"  Because  your  annuity  depends  on  me." 

"  Shrewdly  put — we'll  argufy  that  point.  My  life  is  a  bad  one, 
not  worth  more  than  a  year's  purchase  ;  now,  suppose  you  have 
more  than  forty  pounds  about  you — it  may  be  better  worth  my 
while  to  draw  my  knife  across  your  gullet  than  to  wait  for  the 
quarter-day's  ten  pounds,  at  a  time.  You  see  it's  all  a  matter  of 
calculation,  my  dear  Mr.  What's-your-name  ! " 

"But,"  replied  the  banker,  and  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  "I 
have  not  forty  pounds  about  me." 

"  How  do  I  know  that ! — you  say  so.  Well,  in  the  town  yon- 
der your  word  goes  for  more  than  mine  ;  I  never  gainsayed  you 
when  you  put  that  to  me,  did  I  ?  But  here,  by  the  haystack,  my 
word  is  better  than  yours  ;  and  if  I  say  you  must  and  shall  have 
forty  pounds  about  you,  let's  see  whether  you  dare  contradict 
me !" 

"  Look  you,  Darvil,"  said  the  banker,  summoning  up  all  his 
energy  and  intellect,  for  his  moral  power  began  now  to  back  his 
physical  cowardice,  and  he  spoke  calmly  and  even  bravely,  though 
his  heart  throbbed  aloud  beneath  his  breast,  and  you  might  have 
knocked  him  down  with  a  feather — "  the  London  runners  are 
even  now  hot  after  you." 

"  Ha !— you  lie  ! " 

"  Upon  my  honor  I  speak  the  truth  ;  I  heard  the  news  last 

evening.     They  tracked  you  to  C ;  they  tracked  you  out  of 

the  town;  a  word  from  me  would  have  given  you  into  their  hands. 
I  said  nothing — you  are  safe — you  may  yet  escape.     I  will  even 


1152  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

help  you  to  fly  the  country,  and  live  out  your  natural  date  of 
years,  secure  and  in  peace." 

"You  did  not  say  that  the  other  day  in  the  snug  drawing- 
room  ;  you  see  I  have  the  best  of  it  now — own  that." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  banker. 

Darvil  chuckled,  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

The  man  of  wealth  once  more  felt  his  importance,  and  went 
on.  "This  is  one  side  of  the  question.  On  the  other,  suppose 
you  rob  and  murder  me,  do  you  think  my  death  will  lessen  the 
heat  of  the  pursuit  against  you  ?  The  whole  country  will  be  in 
arms,  and  before  forty-eight  hours  are  over  you  will  be  hunted 
down  like  a  mad  dog." 

Darvil  was  silent,  as  if  in  thought  ;  and  after  a  pause,  re- 
plied— "Well,  you  are  a  cute  one,  after  all.  What  have  you  got 
about  you?  you  know  you  drove  a  hard  bargain  the  other  day — 
now  it's  my  market — fustian  has  riz — kersey  has  fell." 

"All  I  have  about  me  shall  be  yours,"  said  the  banker  eagerly. 

"Give  it  me,  then." 

"  There  !  "  said  the  banker,  placing  his  purse  and  pocket-book 
into  Darvil's  hands. 

"And  the  watch?" 

"  The  watch  ?— well,  there  !  " 

"What's  that?" 

The  banker's  senses  were  sharpened  by  fear,  but  they  were 
not  so  sharp  as  those  of  Darvil  ;  he  heard  nothing  but  the  rain 
pattering  on  the  leaves,  and  the  rush  of  water  in  the  ditch  at 
hand.  Darvil  stopped  and  listened — till,  raising  himself  again, 
with  a  deep  drawn  breath,  he  said,  "  I  think  there  are  rats  in  the 
haystack  ;  they  will  be  running  over  me  in  my  sleep  ;  but  thev 
are  playful  creturs,  and  I  like  'em.  And  now,  my  dear  sir,  I 
am  afraid  I  must  put  an  end'to  you  ! " 

"Good  Heavens  !     What  do  you  mean?     How?" 

"  Man,  there  is  another  world  !  "  quoth  the  ruffian,  mimicking 
the  banker's  solemn  tone  in  their  former  interview.  "  So  much 
the  better  for  you  !     In  that  world  they  don't  tell  tales. 

"  I  swear  I  will  never  betray  you." 

"  You  do  ? — swear  it,  then." 

"  By  all  my  hopes  of  earth  and  heaven  !  " 

"What  a  d — d  coward  you  be  !  "  said  Darvil,  laughing  scorn- 
fully. "  Go — you  are  safe,  I  am  in  good  humor  with  myself 
again.  I  crow  over  you,  for  no  man  can  make  me  tremble.  And 
villain  as  you  think  me,  while  you  fear  me  you  cannot  despise — 
you  respect  me.     Go,  I  say — go." 

The  banker  was  about  to  obey,  when  suddenly,  from  the  hay- 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  I53 

Stack,  a  broad,  red  light  streamed  upon  the  pair,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment Darvil  was  seized  from  behind,  and  struggling  in  the  gripe 
of  a  man  nearly  as  powerful  as  himself.  The  light,  which  came 
from  a  dark-lanthorn,  placed  on  the  ground,  revealed  the  forms 
of  a  peasant  in  a  smock-frock,  and  two  stout-built,  stalwart 
men,  armed  with  pistols — besides  the  one  engaged  with 
Darvil. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  was  brought  as  by  the  trick  of  the 
stage — as  by  a  flash  of  lightning — as  by  the  change  of  a  show- 
man's phantasmagoria — before  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  banker. 
He  stood  arrested  and  spell-bound,  his  hand  on  his  bridle,  his 
foot  on  his  stirrup.  A  moment  more,  and  Darvil  had  dashed 
his  antagonist  on  the  ground  ;  he  stood  at  a  little  distance,  his 
face  reddened  by  the  glare  of  the  lanthorn,  and  fronting  his 
assailants — that  fiercest  of  all  beasts,  a  desperate  man  at  bay  ! 
He  had  already  succeeded  in  drawing  forth  his  pistols,  and  he 
held  one  in  each  hand — his  eyes  flashing  from  beneath  his  bent 
brows,  and  turning  quickly  from  foe  to  foe  !  At  last  those 
terrible  eyes  rested  on  the  late  reluctant  companion  of  his 
solitude. 

''Soyouthen,  betrayed  me,"  he  said,  very  slowly,  and  directed 
his  pistol  to  the  head  of  the  dismounted  horseman. 

"  No,  no  ! "  cried  one  of  the  officers,  for  such  were  Darvil's 
assailants  ;  ''fire  away  in  this  direction,  my  hearty — we're  paid 
for  it.     The  gentleman  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"Nothing,  by  G — !"  cried  the  banker,  startled  out  of  his 
sanctity. 

"Then  I  shall  keep  my  shot,"  said  Darvil;  "and  mind,  the 
first  who  approaches  me  is  a  dead  man." 

It  so  happened,  that  the  robber  and  the  officers  were  beyond 
the  distance  which  allows  sure  mark  for  a  pistol-shot,  and  each 
party  felt  the  necessity  of  caution. 

"  Vour  time  is  up,  my  swell  cove ! "  cried  the  head  of  the 
detatchment ;  "you  have  had  your  swing,  and  a  long  one  it 
seems  to  have  been — you  must  now  give  in.  Throw  down 
your  barkers,  or  we  must  make  mutton  of  you,  and  rob  the 
gallows." 

Darvil  did  not  reply,  and  the  officers,  accustomed  to  hold 
life  cheap,  moved  on  towards  him — their  pistols  cocked  and 
levelled. 

Darvil  fired — one  of  the  men  staggered  and  fell.  With  a  kind 
of  instinct,  Darvil  had  singled  out  the  one  with  whom  he  had 
before  wrestled  for  life.  The  ruffian  waited  not  for  the  others — 
he  turned  and  fled  along  the  fields. 


154  ERNESt  maltravers. 

"  Zounds,  he  is  off ! "  cried  the  other  two,  and  they  rushed 
after  him  in  pursuit.  A  pause — a  shot — another — an  oath — a 
groan — and  all  was  still. 

"  It's  all  up  with  him  now  ! "  said  one  of  the  runners  in  the 
distance ;  "he  dies  game." 

At  these  words,  the  peasant,  who  had  before  skulked  behind 
the  haystack,  seized  the  lanthorn  from  the  ground,  and  ran  to 
the  spot.     The  banker  involuntarily  followed. 

There  lay  Luke  Darvil  on  the  grass — still  living — but  a  horri- 
ble and  ghastly  spectacle.  One  ball  had  pierced  his  breast, 
another  had  shot  away  his  jaw.  His  eyes  rolled  fearfully,  and 
he  tore  up  the  grass  with  his  hands. 

The  officers  looked  coldly  on.  "  He  was  a  clever  fellow  ! " 
said  one. 

"And  has  given  us  much  trouble,"  said  the  other;  "let  us 
see  to  Will." 

"  But  he's  not  dead  yet,"  said  the  banker,  shuddering. 

"Sir,  he  cannot  live  a  minute." 

Darvil  raised  himself  bolt  upright — shook  his  clenched  fist  at 
his  conquerors,  and  a  fearful  gurgling  howl,  which  the  nature  of  his 
wounds  did  not  allow  him  to  syllable  into  a  curse,  came  from  his 
breast — with  that  he  fell  flat  on  his  back — a  corpse. 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  said  the  elder  officer,  turning  away,  "you 
had  a  narrow  escape — but  how  came  you  here  ? " 

"Rather,  how  came^*?^  here?" 

"Honest  Hodge  there,  with  the  lanthorn,  had  marked  the 
fellow  skulk  behind  a  haystack,  when  he  himself  was  going  out 
tosnare  rabbits.  He  had  seen  our  advertisement  of  Watts's>person, 
and  knew  that  we  were  then  at  a  public  house  some  miles  off. 
He  came  to  us — conducted  us  to  the  spot — we  heard  voices — 
showed  up  the  glim — and  saw  our  man.  Hodge,  you  are  a 
good  subject,  and  love  justice." 

"  Yees,  but  I  shall  have  the  rewourd,"  said  Hodge,  showing 
his  teeth. 

"Talk  o'  that  by  and  by,"  said  the  officer.  "Will,  how  are 
you,  man?" 

"Bad,"  groaned  the  poor  runner,  and  a  rush  of  blood  from 
the  lips  followed  the  groan. 

It  was  many  days  before  the  ex-member  from  C sufficiently 

recovered  the  tone  of  his  mind  to  think  further  of  Alice  ;  when 
he  did,  it  was  with  great  satisfaction  that  he  reflected  that  Dar- 
vil was  no  more,  and  that  the  deceased  ruffian  was  only  known 
to  the  neighborhood  by  the  name  of  Peter  Watts. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I55 


BOOK   V. 

'0  fjumatroibq  ivQa&  Innuva^  neiTai. 
Ei  fMEV  iror/T/pdg,  fit/  ■K-orepxev  tu  TVfi^(f>' 
Ei  <r  iaal  Kpyyvdq  re  Kal  irapa  xP^otuv 
Qapaiuv  Kadi^sv'  kiIv  de?.yQ  andfipi^ov. 

Theoc.  /i/>i^.  in  Nippon. 

PARODY. 

My  hero,  turned  author,  lies  mute  in  this  section, 

You  may  pass  by  the  place  if  you're  bored  by  reflection  : 

But  if  honest  enough  to  be  fond  of  the  Muse, 

Stay,  and  read  where  you're  able,  and  sleep  where  you  choose. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*    *    *     "  My  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring. 

«  4:  «  *  *  *  * 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by. 

Intent  on  high  designs." — Goldsmith. 

I  HAVE  no  respect  for  the  Englishman  who  re-enters  London 
after  long  residence  abroad,  without  a  pulse  that  beats  quick, 
and  a  heart  that  heaves  high.  The  public  buildings  are  few, 
and  for  the  most  part,  mean  ;  the  monuments  of  antiquity  not 
comparable  to  those  which  the  pettiest  town  in  Italy  can  boast 
®f ;  the  palaces  are  sad  rubbish  ;  the  houses  of  our  peers  and 
princes  are  shabby  and  shapeless  heaps  of  brick.  But  what 
of  all  this  ?  The  spirit  of  London  is  in  her  thoroughfares — her 
population!  What  wealth — what  cleanliness — what  order — what 
animation  !  How  majestic,  and  yet  how  vivid,  is  the  life  that 
runs  through  her  myriad  veins  !  How,  as  the  lamps  blaze  upon 
you  at  night,  and  street  after  street  glides  by  your  wheels,  each 
so  regular  in  its  symmetry,  so  equal  in  its  civilization — how  all 
speak  of  the  City  of  Freemen  ! 

Yes,  Maltra vers  felt  his  heart  swell  within  him,  as  the  post- 
horses  whirled  on  his  dingy  carriage — over  Westminster  Bridge 
— along  Whitehall — through  Regent  Street — towards  one  of  the 
quiet  and  private  house-like  hotels,  that  are  scattered  round  the 
neighborhood  of  Grosvenor  Square. 

Ernest's  arrival  had  been  expected.  He  had  written  from 
Paris  to  Cleveland  to  announce  it ;  and  Cleveland  had,  in  reply, 


156  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

informed  him  that  he  had  engaged  apartments  for  him  at  Mivart's. 
The  smiling  waiters  ushered  him  into  a  spacious  and  well-aired 
room — the  arm-chair  was  already  wheeled  by  the  fire — a  score 
or  so  of  letters  strewed  the  table,  together  with  two  of  the  even- 
ing papers.  And  how  eloquently  of  busy  England  do  those  even- 
ing papers  speak  !  A  stranger  might  have  felt  that  he  wanted  no 
friend  to  welcome  him — the  whole  room  smiled  on  him  a  welcome. 

Maltravers  ordered  his  dinner  and  opened  his  letters  ;  they 
were  of  no  importance ;  one  from  his  steward,  one  from  his 
banker,  another  about  the  County  Races,  a  fourth  from  a  man  he 
had  never  heard  of,  requesting   the  vote  and  powerful  interest 

of  Mr.  Maltravers  for  the  county  of  B ,  should  the  rumor  of 

a  dissolution  be  verified  ;  the  unknown  candidate  referred  Mr. 
Maltravers  to  his  "  well-known  public  character."  From  these 
epistles  Ernest  turned  impatiently,  and  perceived  a  little  three- 
cornered  note  which  had  hitherto  escaped  his  attention.  It  was 
from  Cleveland,  intimating  that  he  was  in  town  ;  that  his  health 
still  precluded  his  going  out,  but  that  he  trusted  to  see  his  dear 
Ernest  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

Maltravers  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  passing  his  even- 
ing so  agreeably ;  he  soon  despatched  his  dinner  and  his  news- 
papers, and  walked  in  the  brilliant  lamplight  of  a  clear  frosty 
evening  of  early  December  in  London,  to  his  friend's  house  in 
Curzon  Street ;  a  small  house,  bachelor-like  and  unpretending; 
for  Cleveland  spent  his  moderate  though  easy  fortune  almost  en- 
tirely upon  his  country  villa.  The  familiar  face  of  the  old  valet 
greeted  Ernest  at  the  door,  and  he  only  paused  to  hear  that  his 
guardian  was  nearly  recovered  to  his  usual  healtli,  ere  he  was 
in  the  cheerful  drawing-room,  and — since  Englishmen  do  not 
embrace — returning  the  cordial  gripe  of  the  kindly  Cleveland. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Ernest,"'  said  Cleveland,  after  they  had  gone 
through  the  preliminary  round  of  questions  and  answers,  "  here 
you  are  at  last ;  Heaven  be  praised ;  and  how  well  you  are  looking 
— how  much  you  are  improved  !  It  is  an  excellent  period  of  the 
year  for  your  d^but  in  London.  I  shall  have  time  to  make  you 
intimate  with  people  before  the  whirl  of  'the  season'  commences." 

"  Why,  I  thought  of  going  to  Burleigh,  my  country-place. 
I  have  not  seen  it  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  No,  no  !  you  have  had  solitude  enough  at  Come,  if  I  may  trust 
to  your  letter  ;  you  must  now  mix  with  the  great  London  world; 
and  you  will  enjoy  Burleigh  the  more  in  the  summer." 

"I  fancy  this  great  London  world  will  give  me  very  little 
pleasure  ;  it  may  be  pleasant  enough  to  young  men  just  let  loose 
from  college,  but  your  crowded  ball-rooms  and   monotonous 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I57 

clubs  will  be  wearisome  to  one  who  has  grown  fastidious  before 
his  time.  J^aive'cu  beaucoup  dans  peu  d'antie'es.  I  have  drawn 
in  youth  too  much  upon  the  capital  of  existence,  to  be  highly- 
delighted  with  the  ostentatious  parsimony  with  which  our  great 
men  economize  pleasure." 

"Don't  judge  before  you  have  gone  through  the  trial,"  said 
Cleveland  :  '*  there  is  something  in  the  opulent  splendor,  the 
thoroughly  sustained  magnificence,  with  which  the  leaders  of 
English  fashion  conduct  even  the  most  insipid  amusements,  that 
is  above  contempt.  Besides,  you  need  not  necessarily  live  with 
the  butterflies.  Thereare  plenty  of  bees  that  will  be  very  happy 
to  make  your  acquaintance.  Add  to  this,  my  dear  Ernest,  the 
pleasure  of  being  made  of — of  being  of  importance  in  your  own 
country.  For  you  are  young,  well-born,  and  sufficiently  hand- 
some to  be  an  object  of  interest  to  mothers  and  to  daughters; 
while  your  name,  and  property,  and  interest  will  make  you 
courted  by  men  who  want  to  borrow  your  money  and  obtain  your 
influence  in  your  county.  No,  Maltravers,  stay  in  London — 
amuse  yourself  your  first  year,  and  decide  on  your  occupation 
and  career  the  next ;  but  reconnoitre  before  you  give  battle." 

Maltravers  was  not  ill  pleased  to  follow  his  friend's  advice, 
since  by  so  doing  he  obtained  his  friend's  guidance  and  society. 
Moreover,  he  deemed  it  wise  and  rational  to  see,  face  to  face, 
the  eminent  men  in  England,  with  whom,  if  he  fulfilled  his  prom- 
ise to  De  Montaigne,  he  was  to  run  the  race  of  honorable  rivalry. 
Accordingly,  he  consented  to  Cleveland's  propositions. 

"And  have  you,"  said  he  hesitating,  as  he  loitered  by  the 
door  after  the  stroke  of  twelve  had  warned  him  to  take  his 
leave — "  have  you  never  heard  anything  of  my — my — the  un- 
fortunate Alice  Darvil?" 

"  Who  ? — Oh,  that  poor  young  woman  ;  I  remember  ! — not  a 
syllable." 

Maltravers  sighed  deeply  and  departed. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Je  trouve  que  c'est  une  folic  de  vouloir  e'tudier  le  monde  en  simple  spec- 
tateur.  *  *  Dans  I'ecole  du  monde,  comme  dans  cette  de  I'amour,  il  faut 
commencer  par  pratiquer  ce  qu'on  veut  apprendre."  * — Rousseau. 

Ernest  Maltravers  was  now  fairly  launched  upon  the  wide 
ocean  of  London.     Amongst  his  other  property  was  a  house  in 

*  1  lind  that  il  is  a  folly  to  wish  to  study  the  world  like  a  simple  spectator.  ♦  *  In  the 
school  nt  the  world,  as  in  that  of  love,  it  is  necessary  to  begin  by  practising  what  we  wish 
to  learn. 


158  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Seamore  Place — that  quiet,  yet  central  street,  which  enjoys  the 
air,  without  the  dust,  of  the  Park.  It  had  been  hitherto  let,  and, 
the  tenant  now  quitting  very  opportunely,  Maltravers  was  de- 
lighted to  secure  so  pleasant  a  residence  :  for  he  was  still  ro- 
mantic enough  to  desire  to  look  out  upon  trees  and  verdure 
rather  than  brick  houses.  He  indulged  only  in  two  other  luxu- 
ries ;  his  love  of  music  tempted  him  to  an  opera-box,  and  he  had 
that  English  feeling  which  prides  itself  in  the  possession  of  beau- 
tiful horses, — a  feeling  that  enticed  him  into  an  extravagance 
on  this  head  that  baffled  the  competition  and  excited  the  envy 
of  much  richer  men.  But  four  thousand  a  year  goes  a  great  way 
with  a  single  man  who  does  not  gamble,  and  is  too  philosophical 
to  make  superfluities  wants. 

The  world  doubled  his  income,  magnified  his  country- 
seat  into  a  superb  chateau,  and  discovered  that  his  elder 
brother,  who  was  only  three  or  four  years  older  than  him- 
self, had  no  children.  The  world  was  very  courteous  to 
Ernest  Maltravers. 

It  was,  as  Cleveland  said,  just  at  that  time  of  year  when  peo- 
ple are  at  leisure  to  make  new  acquaintances.  A  few  only  of 
the  most  difficult  houses  in  town  were  open ;  and  their  doors 
were  cheerfully  expanded  to  the  accomplished  ward  of  the  popu- 
lar Cleveland.  Authors,  and  statesmen,  and  orators,  and  phil- 
osophers— to  all  he  was  presented  ; — all  seemed  pleased  with 
him,  and  Ernest  became  the  fashion  before  he  was  conscious  of 
the  distinction.  But  he  had  rightly  foreboded.  He  had  com- 
menced life  too  soon  ;  he  was  disappointed  ;  he  found  some 
persons  he  could  admire,  some  whom  he  could  like,  but  none 
with  whom  he  could  grow  intimate,  or  for  whom  he  could  feel 
an  interest.  Neither  his  heart  nor  his  imagination  was  touched; 
all  appeared  to  him  like  artificial  machines  ;  he  was  discontent- 
ed with  things  like  life,  but  in  which  something  or  other  was 
wanting.  He  more  than  ever  recalled  the  brilliant  graces  of 
Valerie  deVentadour,  which  had  thrown  a  charm  over  the  most 
frivolous  circles ;  he  even  missed  the  perverse  and  fantastic 
vanity  of  Castruccio.  The  mediocre  poet  seemed  to  him  at  least 
less  mediocre  than  the  worldlings  about  him.  Nay,  even  the 
selfish  good  spirits  and  dry  shrewdness  of  Lumley  Ferrers  would 
have  been  an  acceptable  change  to  the  dull  polish  and  unre- 
vealed  egotism  of  jealous  wit  and  party  politicians.  **  If  these 
are  the  flowers  of  the  parterre,  what  must  be  the  weeds  ?"  said 
Maltravers  to  himself,  returning  from  a  party  at  which  he  had 
met  half  a  score  of  the  most  orthodox  lions. 

He  began  to  feel  the  aching  pain  of  satiety. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  159 

But  the  winter  glided  away  :  the  season  commenced,  and 
Maltravers  was  whirled  on  with  the  rest  into  the  bubbling 
vortex. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

**  And  crowds  commencing  mere  vexation, 
Retirement  sent  its  invitation." — Shenstone. 

The  tench,  no  doubt,  considers  the  pond  in  which  he  lives 
as  the  Great  World.  There  is  no  place,  however  stagnant,  which 
is  not  the  great  world  to  the  creatures  that  move  about  in  it. 
People  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in  a  village  still  talk  of  the 
world  as  if  they  had  ever  seen  it !  An  old  woman  in  a  hovel 
does  not  put  her  nose  out  of  her  door  on  a  Sunday  without 
thinking  she  is  going  amongst  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
great  world.  £rgo,  the  great  world  is  to  all  of  us  the  little 
circle  in  which  we  live.  But  as  fine  people  set  the  fashion,  so 
the  circle  of  fine  people  is  called  the  Great  World, /ar  rx- 
cellence.  Now  this  great  world  is  not  a  bad  thing  when  we 
thoroughly  understand  it ;  and  the  London  great  world  is  at  least 
as  good  as  any  other.  But  then  we  scarcely  </<?  understand  that 
or  anything  else  in  our  beaux  jours, — which,  if  they  are  some- 
times the  most  exquisite,  are  also  often  the  most  melancholy 
and  the  most  wasted  portion  of  our  life.  Maltravers  had  not 
yet  found  out  either  the  set  that  pleased  him  or  the  species  of 
amusement  that  really  amused.  Therefore  he  drifted  on  and 
about  the  vast  whirlpool,  making  plenty  of  friends — going  to 
balls  and  dinners — and  bored  with  both,  as  men  are  who  have 
no  object  in  society.  Now  the  way  society  is  enjoyed  is  to 
have  a  pursuit,  a  metier  of  some  kind,  and  then  go  into  the 
world,  either  to  make  the  individual  object  a  social  pleasure, 
or  to  obtain  a  reprieve  from  some  toilsome  avocation.  Thus  if 
you  are  a  politician — politics  at  once  make  an  object  in  your 
closet,  and  a  social  tie  between  others  and  yourself  when  you 
are  in  the  world.  The  same  may  be  said  of  literature, 
though  in  a  less  degree ;  and  though,  as  fewer  persons  care 
about  literature  than  politics,  your  companions  must  be 
more  select.  If  you  are  very  young,  you  are  fond  of  dancing; 
if  you  are  very  profligate,  perhaps  you  are  fond  of  flirtations 
with  your  friend's  wife.  These  last  are  objects  in  their  way  : 
but  they  don't  last  long,  and,  even  with  the  most  frivolous,  are 
not  occupations  that  satisfy  the  whole  mind  and  heart,  in  which 
there  is  generally  an  aspiration  after  something  useful.     It  is  not 


l6o  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

vanity  alone  that  makes  the  man  of  the  motfe  invent  a  new  bit,  or 
give  his  name  to  a  new  kind  of  carriage;  it  is  the  influence  of 
that  mystic  yearning  after  utility,  which  is  one  of- the  master- 
ties  between  the  individual  and  the  species. 

Maltravers  was  not  happy — that  is  a  lof  common  enough;  but 
he  was  not  amused — and  that  is  a  sentence  more  insupportable. 
He  lost  a  great  part  of  his  sympathy  with  Cleveland,  for,  when 
a  man  is  not  amused,  he  feels  an  involuntary  contempt  for  those 
who  are.  He  fancies  they  are  pleased  with  trifles  which  his 
superior  wisdom  is  compelled  to  disdain.  Cleveland  was  of 
that  age  when  we  generally  grow  social — for  by  being  rubbed 
long  and  often  against  the  great  loadstone  of  society,  we  obtain, 
in.  a  thousand  little  minute  points,  an  attraction  in  common 
with  our  fellows.  Their  petty  sorrows  and  small  joys — their 
objects  of  interest  or  employment,  at  some  time  or  other  have 
been  ours.  We  gather  up  a  vast  collection  of  moral  and  mental 
farthings  of  exchange;  and  we  scarcely  find  any  intellect  too 
poor,  but  what  we  can  deal  with  it  in  some  way.  But  in  youth, 
we  are  egotists  and  sentimentalists,  and  Maltravers  belonged  to 
the  fraternity  who  employ 

"  The  heart  in  passion  and  the  head  in  rhymes." 

At  length — just  when  London  begins  to  grow  most  pleasant — 
when  flirtations  become  tender,  and  water-parties  numerous — 
when  birds  sing  in  the  groves  of  Richmond,  and  whitebait 
refresh  the  statesman  by  the  shores  of  Greenwich, — Maltravers 
abruptly  fled  from  the  gay  metropolis,  and  arrived,  one  lovely 
evening  in  July,  at  his  own  ivy-grown  porch  of  Burleigh. 

What  a  soft,  fresh,  delicious  evening  it  was  !  He  had  quitted 
his  carriage  at  the  lodge,  and  followed  it  across  the  small  but 
picturesque  park  alone  and  on  foot.  He  had  not  seen  the  place 
since  childhood — he  had  quite  forgotten  its  aspect.  He  now 
wondered  how  he  could  have  lived  anywhere  else.  The  trees 
did  not  stand  in  stately  avenues,  nor  did  the  antlers  of  the  deer 
wave  above  the  sombre  fern;  it  was  not  the  domain  of  a  grand 
seigneur,  but  of  an  old,  long-descended  English  squire.  Antiq- 
uity spoke  in  the  moss-grown  palings,  in  the  shadowy  groves, 
in  the  sharp  gable-ends  and  heavy  mullions  of  the  house,  as  it 
now  came  in  view,  at  the  base  of  a  hill  covered  with  wood — 
and  partially  veiled  by  the  shrubs  of  the  neglected  pleasure- 
ground,  separated  from  the  park  by  the  invisible  ha-ha.  There, 
gleamed  in  the  twilight  the  watery  face  of  the  oblong  fish-pool, 
with  its  old-fashioned  willows  at  each  corner — there,  gray  and 
quaint,  was  the  monastic  dial — and  there  was  the  long  terrace- 
walk,  with  discolored  and  broken  vases,  now  filled  with  the 


ERNEST    MALTRAVER3.  l6l 

orange  or  the  aloe,  which,  in  honor  of  his  master's  arrival,  the 
gardener  had  extracted  from  the  dilapidated  green-house.  The 
very  evidence  of  neglect  around,  the  very  weeds  and  grass  on 
the  half-obliterated  road,  touched  Maltravers  with  a  sort  of 
pitying  and  remorseful  affection  for  his  calm  and  sequestered 
residence.  And  it  was  not  with  his  usual  proud  step  and  erect 
crest  that  he  passed  from  the  porch  to  the  solitary  library.through 
a  line  of  his  servants : — the  two  or  three  old  retainers  belong- 
ing to  the  place  were  utterly  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  they  had  no 
smile  for  their  stranger  lord. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

*  Lucian.  He  that  is  born  to  be  a  man,  neither  should  nor  can  be  any- 
thing nobler,  greater,  and  better  than  a  man. 

"  Peregrine.  But,  good  Lucian,  for  the  very  reason  that  he  may  not  be- 
come less  than  a  man,  he  should  be  always  striving  to  be  more." — Wieland's 
Feregrinus  Proteus. 

It  was  two  years  from  the  date  of  the  last  chapter  before 
Maltravers  again  appeared  in  general  society.  These  two  years 
had  sufficed  to  produce  a  revolution  in  his  fate.  Ernest  Mal- 
travers had  lost  the  happy  rights  of  the  private  individual  ;  he 
had  given  himself  to  the  Public  ;  he  had  surrendered  his  name 
to  men's  tongues,  and  was  athing  that  all  had  a  right  to  praise, 
to  blame,  to  scrutinize,  to  spy.  Ernest  Maltravers  had  become 
an  author. 

Let  no  man  tempt  Gods  and  Columns,  without  weighingwell 
the  consequences  of  his  experiment.  He  who  publishes  a  book, 
attended  with  a  moderate  success,  passes  a  mighty  barrier.  He 
will  often  look  back  with  a  sigh  of  regret  at  the  land  he  has 
left  for  ever.  The  beautiful  and  decent  obscurity  of  hearth  and 
home  is  gone.  He  can  no  longer  feel  the  just  indignation  of 
manly  pride  when  he  finds  himself  ridiculed  or  reviled.  He 
has  parted  with  the  shadow  of  his  life.  His  motives  may  be 
misrepresented,  his  character  belied  ;  his  manners,  his  person, 
his  dress,  the  "very  trick  of  his  walk,"  are  all  fair  food  for  the 
cavil  and  the  caricature.  He  can  never  go  back,  he  cannot 
even  pause ;  he  has  chosen  his  path,  and  all  the  natural  feel- 
ings that  make  the  nerve  and  muscle  of  the  active  being,  urge 
him  to  proceed.  To  stop  short  is  to  fail.  He  has  told  the 
world  that  he  will  make  a  name;  and  he  must  be  set  down  as  a 
pretender,  or  toil  on  till  the  boast  be  fulfilled.  Yet  Maltravers 
thought  nothing  of  all  this  when,  intoxicated  with  his  own 
dreams  and  aspirations,  he  desired  to  make  a  world  his  con- 


l62  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

fidant;  when  from  the  living  Nature,  and  the  lore  of  books, 
and  the  mingled  result  of  inward  study  and  external  observa- 
tion, he  sought  to  draw  forth  something  that  might  interweave 
his  name  with  the  pleasurable  associations  of  his  kind.  His 
easy  fortune  and  lonely  state  gave  him  up  to  his  own  thoughts 
and  contemplations  ;  they  suffused  his  mind,  till  it  ran  over 
upon  the  page  which  makes  the  channel  that  connects  the  soli- 
tary Fountain  with  the  vast  Ocean  of  Human  Knowledge.  The 
temperament  of  Maltravers  was,  as  we  have  seen,  neither  irri- 
table nor  fearful.  He  formed  himself,  as  a  sculptor  forms,  with 
a  model  before  his  eyes  and  an  ideal  in  his  heart.  He  endeav- 
ored, with  labor  and  patience,  to  approach  nearer  and  nearer 
with  every  effort  to  the  standard  of  such  excellence  as  he  thought 
might  ultimately  be  attained  by  a  reasonable  ambition  ;  and 
when,  at  last,  his  judgment  was  satisfied,  he  surrendered  the 
product  with  a  tranquil  confidence  to  a  more  impartial  tribunal. 
His  first  work  was  successful  ;  perhaps  from  this  reason — 
that  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the  Honest  and  the  Real.  He  did  not 
sit  down  to  report  of  what  he  had  never  seen,  to  dilate  on  what 
he  had  never  felt.  A  quiet  and  thoughtful  observer  of  life,  his  de- 
scriptions were  the  more  vivid,  because  his  own  first  impressions 
were  not  yet  worn  away.  His  experience  was  sunk  deep  ;  not 
on  the  arid  surface  of  matured  age,  but  in  the  fresh  soil  of  youth- 
ful emotions.  Another  reason,  perhaps,  that  obtained  success 
for  his  essay  was,  that  he  had  more  varied  and  more  elaborate 
knowledge  than  young  authors  think  it  necessary  to  possess. 
He  did  not,  likeCesarini,  attempt  to  make  a  show  of  words  upon 
a  slender  capital  of  ideas.  Whether  his  style  was  eloquent  or 
homely,  it  was  in  him  a  faithful  transcript  of  considered  and 
digested  thought.  A  third  reason — and  I  dwell  on  these  points 
not  more  to  elucidate  the  career  of  Maltravers  than  as  hints 
which  may  be  useful  to  others — a  third  reason  why  Maltravers 
obtained  a  prompt  and  favorable  reception  from  the  public  was, 
that  he  had  not  hackneyed  his  peculiarities  of  diction  and  thought 
in  that  worst  of  all  schools  for  the  literary  novice — the  columns 
of  a  magazine.  Periodicals  form  an  excellent  mode  of  commu- 
nication between  the  public  and  an  author  already  established, 
who  has  lost  the  charm  of  novelty,  but  gained  the  weight  of 
acknowledged  reputation;  and  who,  either  upon  politics  or  crit- 
icism, seeks  for  frequent  and  continuous  occasions  to  enforce 
his  peculiar  theses  and  doctrines.  But,  upon  the  young  writer, 
this  mode  of  communication,  if  too  long  continued,  operates 
most  injuriously  both  as  to  his  future  prospects  and  his  own 
present  taste  and  style.    With  respect  to  the  first,  it  familiarizes 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  163 

the  puDlic  to  his  mannerism  (and  all  writers  worth  reading  have 
mannerism)  in  a  form  to  which  the  said  public  are  not  inclined 
to  attach  much  weight.  He  forestalls  in  a  few  months  what 
ought  to  be  the  effect  of  years  ;  namely,  the  wearying  a  world 
soon  nauseated  with  the  toujour s per drix.  With  respect  to  the 
last,  it  induces  a  man  to  write  for  momentary  effects  ;  to  study 
a  false  smartness  of  style  and  reasoning  :  to  bound  his  ambition 
of  durability  to  the  last  day  of  the  month  ;  to  expect  immedi- 
ate returns  for  labor  ;  to  recoil  at  the  hope  "  deferred  "  of  seri- 
ous works  on  which  judgment  is  slowly  formed.  The  man  of 
talent  who  begins  young  at  periodicals,  and  goes  on  long,  has 
generally  something  crude  and  stunted  about  both  his  composi- 
tions and  his  celebrity.  He  grows  the  oracle  of  small  coteries; 
and  we  can  rarely  get  out  of  the  impression  that  he  is  cockney- 
fied  and  conventional.  Periodicals  sadly  mortgaged  the  claims 
that  Hazlitt,  and  many  others  of  his  contemporaries,  had  upon 
a  vast  reversionary  estate  of  Fame.  But  I  here  speak  too  polit- 
ically ;  to  some,  the  res  angustce  domi  leave  no  option.  And, 
as  Aristotle  and  the  Greek  proverb  have  it,  we  cannot  carve  out 
all  things  with  the  knife  of  the  Delphic  cutler. 

The  second  work  that  Maltravers  put  forth,  at  an  interval  ot 
eighteen  months  from  the  first,  was  one  of  a  graver  and  higher 
nature;  it  served  to  confirm  his  reputation  :  and  that  is  success 
enough  for  a  second  work,  which  is  usually  an  author's  pons 
asinorum.  He  who,  after  a  triumphant  first  book,  does  not  dis- 
satisfy the  public  with  a  second,  has  a  fair  chance  of  gaining  a 
fixed  station  in  literature.  But  now  commenced  the  pains  and 
perils  of  the  after-birth.  By  a  maiden  effort  an  author  rarely 
makes  enemies.  His  fellow-writers  are  not  yet  prepared  to  con- 
sider him  as  a  rival ;  if  he  be  tolerably  rich,  they  unconsciously 
trust  that  he  will  not  became  a  regular,  or,  as  they  term  it,  "  a 
professional  "  author  :  he  did  something  just  to  be  talked  of  ; 
he  may  write  no  more,  or  his  second  book  may  fail.  But  when 
that  second  book  comes  out,  and  does  not  fail,  they  begin  to 
look  about  them  ;  envy  wakens,  malice  begins.  And  all  the 
old  school — gentlemen  who  have  retired  on  their  pensions  of 
renown — regard  him  as  an  intruder  :  then  the  sneer,  then  the 
frown,  the  caustic  irony,  the  biting  review,  the  depreciating  praise. 
The  novice  begins  to  think  that  he  is  further  from  the  goal  than 
before  he  set  out  upon  the  race. 

Maltravers  had,  upon  the  whole,  a  tolerably  happy  tempera- 
ment ;  but  he  was  a  very  proud  man,  and  he  had  the  nice  soul  of 
a  courageous,  honorable,  punctilious  gentleman.  He  thought  it 
lingular  that  society  should  call  upon  him,  as  a  gentleman,  to 


164  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

shoot  his  best  friend,  if  that  friend  affronted  him  with  a  rude 
word  ;  and  yet  that,  as  an  author,  every  fool  and  liar  might,  with 
perfect  impunity,  cover  reams  of  paper  with  the  most  virulent 
personal  abuse  of  him. 

It  was  one  evening  in  the  eariy  summer  that,  revolving  anx- 
ious and  doubtful  thoughts,  Ernest  sauntered  gloomily  along 
his  terrace, 

"  And  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  setting  sun," 
when  he  perceived  a  dusty  travelling  carriage  whirled  along  the 
road  by  the  ha-ha,  and  a  hand  waved  in  recognition  from  the 
open  window.  His  guests  had  been  so  rare,  and  his  friends 
were  so  few,  that  Maltravers  could  not  conjecture  who  was  his 
intended  visitant.  His  brother,  he  knew,  was  in  London. 
Cleveland,  from  whom  he  had  that  day  heard,  was  at  his  villa. 
Ferrers  was  enjoying  himself  at  Vienna.  Who  could  it  be?  We 
may  say  of  solitude  what  we  please  ;  but  after  two  years  of  sol- 
itude, a  visitor  is  a  pleasurable  excitement.  Maltravers  re- 
traced his  steps,  entered  his  house,  and  was  just  in  time  to  find 
himself  almost  in  the  arms  of  De  Montaigne. 


CHAPTER  V. 

*'  Quid  tarn  dextro  pede  concipis  ut  te, 
Conatus  non  poeniteat,  votique  peracti  ?  "* — Juv. 

"Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "  in  my  way  /  also  am  fulfilling 
my  destiny.  I  am  a  member  of  the  Chambre  de  Deputes,  and 
on  a  visit  to  England  upon  some  commercial  affairs.  1  found 
myself  in  your  neighborhood,  and,  of  course,  could  not  resist  the 
temptation ;  so  you  must  receive  me  as  your  guest  for  some  days." 

"  I  congratulate  you  cordially  on  your  senatorial  honors.  I 
have  already  heard  of  your  rising  name." 

"  I  return  the  congratulations  with  equal  warmth.  You  are 
bringing  my  prophecies  to  pass.  I  have  read  your  works  with 
increased  pride  at  our  friendship." 

Maltravers  sighed  slightly,  and  half  turned  away. 

"  The  desire  of  distinction,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "grows 
upon  us  till  excitement  becomes  disease.  The  child  who  is 
born  with  the  Mariner's  instinct  laughs  with  glee  when  his  paper 
bark  skims  the  wave  of  a  pool.  By-and-by,  nothing  will  content 
him  but  the  ship  and  the  ocean. — Like  the  child  is  the  author." 

•  What  under  such  happy  auspices  do  you  conceive,  that  you  may  not  repent  of  your  en- 
deavor and  accomplished  wish  ? 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  165 

"  I  am  pleased  with  your  simile,"  said  De  Montaigne,  smiling. 
**  Do  not  spoil  it,  but  go  on  with  your  argument." 

Maltravers  continued  :  "  Scarcely  do  we  win  the  applause  of 
a  moment,  ere  we  summon  the  past  and  conjecture  the  future. 
Our  contemporaries  no  longer  suffice  for  competitors,  our  age 
for  the  Court  to  pronounce  on  our  claims  ;  we  call  up  the  Dead 
as  our  only  true  rivals — we  appeal  to  Posterity  as  our  sole  just 
tribunal.  Is  this  vain  in  us?  Possibly.  Yet  such  vanity  hum- 
bles. 'Tis  then  only  we  learn  all  the  difference  between  Repu- 
tation and  Fame — between  To-Day  and  Immortality  !  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  replied  De  Montaigne,  "  that  the  dead  did 
not  feel  the  same  when  they  first  trod  the  path  that  leads  to  the 
life  beyond  life?  Continue  to  cultivate  the  mind,  to  sliarpen 
by  exercise  the  genius,  to  attempt  to  delight  or  to  instruct  your 
race;  and  even  supposing  you  fall  short  of  every  model  you  set 
before  you — supposing  your  name  moulder  with  your  dust,  still 
you  will  have  passed  life  more  nobly  than  the  unlaborious  herd. 
Grant  that  you  win  not  that  glorious  accident,  *  a  name  below,' 
how  can  you  tell  but  what  you  may  have  fitted  yourself  for 
high  destiny  and  employ  in  the  world  not  of  men,  but  of  spirits? 
The  powers  of  the  mind  are  things  that  cannot  be  less  immortal 
than  the  mere  sense  of  identity;  their  acquisition  accompany  us 
through  the  Eternal  Progress  ;  and  we  may  obtain  a  lower  or  a 
higher  grade  hereafter,  in  proportion  as  we  are  more  or  less 
fitted  by  the  exercise  of  our  intellect  to  comprehend  and  exe- 
cute the  solemn  agencies  of  God.  The  wise  man  is  nearer  to 
the  angels  than  the  fool  is.  This  may  be  an  apocryphal  dogma, 
but  it  is  not  an  impossible  theory." 

"  But  we  may  waste  the  sound  enjoyments  of  actual  life  in 
chasing  the  hope  you  justly  allow  to  be  'apocryphal';  and 
our  knowledge  may  go  for  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Omniscient." 

"  Very  well,"  said  De  Montaigne,  smiling;  "but  answer  me 
honestly.  By  the  pursuits  of  intellectual  ambition,  do  you  waste 
the  sound  enjoyments  of  life?  If  so,  you  do  not  pursue  the 
system  rightly.  Those  pursuits  ought  only  to  quicken  your 
sense  for  such  pleasures  as  are  the  true  relaxations  of  life.  And 
this,  with  you  peculiarly,  since  you  are  fortunate  enough  not  to 
depend  for  subsistence  upon  literature  ; — did  you  do  so,  I  might 
rather  advise  you  to  be  a  trunkmaker  than  an  author.  A  man 
ought  not  to  attempt  any  of  the  highest  walks  of  Mind  and  Art 
as  the  mere  provision  of  daily  bread  ;  not  literature  alone,  but 
everything  else  of  the  same  degree.  He  ought  not  to  be  a 
statesman,  or  an  orator,  or  a  philosopher,  as  a  thing  of  pence 


l66  ERNEST    MALTRAVF.RS. 

and  shillings  :  and  usually  all  men,  save  the  poor  poet,  feel  this 
truth  insensibly." 

"This  may  be  fine  preaching,"  said  Maltravers  ;  "but  you 
may  be  quite  sure  that  the  pursuit  of  literature  is  a  pursuit  apart 
from  the  ordinary  objects  of  life,  and  you  cannot  command  the 
enjoyments  of  both." 

'*  I  think  otherwise,"  said  De  Montaigne;  "but  it  is  not  in  a 
country  house  eighty  miles  from  the  capital,  without  wife,  guests 
or  friends,  that  the  experiment  can  be  fairly  made.  Come, 
Maltravers,  I  see  before  you  a  brave  career,  and  I  cannot  per- 
mit you  to  halt  at  the  onset." 

"  You  do  not  see  all  the  calumnies  that  are  already  put  forth 
against  me,  to  say  nothing  of  all  the  assurances  (and  many  by 
clever  men)  that  there  is  nothing  in  me." 

"  Dennis  was  a  clever  man,  and  said  the  same  thing  of  your 
Pope.  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  a  clever  woman,  but  she  thought 
Racine  would  never  be  very  famous.  Milton  saw  nothing  in  the 
first  efforts  of  Dryden  that  made  him  consider  Dryden  better  than 
a  rhymester.  Aristophanes  was  a  good  judge  of  poetry,  yet  how 
ill  he  judged  of  Euripides  !  But  all  this  is  commonplace,  and  yet 
you  bring  arguments  that  a  commonplace  answers  in  evidence 
against  yourself." 

"But  it  is  unpleasant  not  to  answer  attacks — not  to  retaliate 
on  enemies." 

"  Then  answer  attacks,  and  retaliate  on  enemies." 

"  But  would  that  be  wise  ? " 

"  If  it  give  you  pleasure — it  would  not  please  me." 

"  Come,  De  Montaigne,  you  are  reasoning  Socratically.  I 
will  ask  you  plainly  and  bluntly,  would  you  advise  an  author  to 
wage  war  on  his  literary  assailants,  or  to  despise  them  ?" 

"Both;  let  him  attack  but  few,  and  those  rarely.  But  it  is  his 
policy  to  show  that  he  is  one  whom  it  is  better  not  to  provoke  too 
far.  The  author  always  has  the  world  on  his  side  against  the 
critics,  if  he  choose  his  opportunity.  And  he  must  always 
recollect  that  he  is  'a  state*  in  himself,  which  must  some- 
times go  to  war  in  order  to  procure  peace.  The  time  for 
war  or  for  peace  must  be  left  to  the  State's  own  diplomacy 
and  wisdom." 

"  You  would  make  us  political  machines." 

"  I  would  make  every  man's  conduct  more  or  less  mechanical ; 
for  system  is  the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter;  the  just  equilib- 
rium of  all  the  powers  and  passions  may  seem  like  machinery. 
Be  it  so.  Nature  meant  the  world — the  creation — man  himself, 
for  machines." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  167 

"And  one  must  even  be  in  a  passion  mechanically,  according 
to  your  theories." 

"  A  man  is  a  poor  creature  who  is  not  in  a  passion  sometimes; 
but  a  very  unjust,  or  a  very  foolish  one,  if  he  be  in  a  passion 
with  the  wrong  person,  and  in  the  wrong  place  and  time.  But 
enough  of  this,  it  is  growing  late." 

"  And  when  will  Madame  visit  England  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  yet,  I  fear.  But  you  will  meet  Cesarini  in  London 
this  year  or  the  next.  He  is  persuaded  that  you  did  not  see  justice 
done  to  his  poems,  and  is  coming  here  as  soon  as  his  indolence 
will  let  him,  to  proclaim  your  treachery  in  a  biting  preface  to 
some  toothless  satire." 

"  Satire  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  more  than  one  of  your  poets  made  their  way  by  a 
satire,  and  Cesarini  is  persuaded  he  shall  do  the  same.  Castruccio 
is  not  as  far-sighted  as  his  namesake,  the  Prince  of  Lucca. 
Good-night,  my  dear  Ernest." 


CHAPTER  VL 

"When  with  much  pains  this  boasted  learning's  got, 
*Tis  an  affront  to  those  who  have  it  not." 

Churchill  :   The  Author. 

There  was  something  in  De  Montaigne's  conversation,  which, 
without  actual  flattery,  reconciled  Maltravers  to  himself  and  his 
career.  It  served  less,  perhaps,  to  excite  than  to  sober  and 
brace  his  mind.  De  Montaigne  could  have  made  no  man  rash, 
but  he  could  have  made  many  men  energetic  and  persevering. 
The  two  friends  had  some  points  in  common  ;  but  Maltravers 
had  far  more  prodigality  of  nature  and  passion  about  him — had 
more  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  the  faults  and  excellencies  of 
flesh  and  blood.  De  Montaigne  held  so  much  to  his  favorite 
doctrine  of  moral  equilibrium,  that  he  had  really  reduced  him- 
self, in  much,  to  a  species  of  clockwork.  As  impulses  are 
formed  from  habits,  so  the  regularity  of  De  Montaigne's  habits 
made  his  impulses  virtuous  and  just,  and  he  yielded  to  them  as 
often  as  a  hasty  character  might  have  done  ;  but  then  those 
impulses  never  urged  to  anything  speculative  or  daring.  De 
Montaigne  could  not  go  beyond  a  certain  defined  circle  of 
action.  He  had  no  sympathy  for  any  reasonings  based  purely 
on  the  hypotheses  of  the  imagination  ;  he  could  not  endure 
Plato,  and  he  was  dumb  on  the  eloquent  whispers  of  whatever 
was  refining  in  poetry  or  mystical  in  wisdom. 


l68  ERNEST    MALTRAVER5. 

Maltravers,  on  the  contrary,  not  disdaining  Reason,  evet 
sought  to  assist  her  by  tlie  Imaginative  Faculty,  and  held  all 
])hilosophy  incomplete  and  unsatisfactory  that  bounded  its  in- 
quiries to  the  limits  of  the  Known  and  Certain.  He  loved  the 
inductive  process  ;  but  he  carried  it  out  to  Conjecture  as  well 
as  Fact.  He  maintained  that,  by  a  similar  hardihood,  all  the 
triumphs  of  science,  as  well  as  art,  had  been  accomplished — 
that  Newton,  that  Copernicus,  would  have  done  nothing  if  they 
had  not  imagined  as  well  as  reasoned,  guessed  as  well  as  ascer- 
tained. Nay,  it  was  an  aphorism  with  him,  that  the  very  soul 
of  philosophy  is  conjecture.  He  had  the  most  implicit  confi- 
dence in  the  operations  of  the  mind  and  the  heart  properly 
formed,  and  deemed  that  the  very  excesses  of  emotion  and 
thought,  in  men  well  trained  by  experience  and  study,  are  con- 
ducive to  useful  and  great  ends.  But  the  more  advanced 
years,  and  the  singularly  practical  character  of  De  Montaigne's 
views,  gave  him  a  superiority  in  argument  over  Maltravers, 
which  the  last  submitted  to  unwillingly.  While,  on  the  other 
hand,  De  Montaigne  secretly  felt  that  his  young  friend  reasoned 
from  a  broader  base,  and  took  in  a  much  wider  circumference  ; 
and  that  he  was,  at  once,  more  liable  to  failure  and  error,  and 
more  capable  of  new  discovery  and  of  intellectual  achievement. 
But  their  ways  in  life  being  different,  they  did  not  clash  ;  and 
De  Montaigne,  who  was  sincerely  interested  in  Ernest's  fate, 
was  contented  to  harden  his  friend's  mind  against  the  obstacles 
in  his  way,  and  leave  the  rest  to  experiment  and  to  Providence. 
They  went  up  to  London  together  :  and  De  Montaigne  returned 
to  Paris.  Maltravers  appeared  once  more  in  the  haunts  of  the 
gay  and  great.  He  felt  that  his  new  character  had  greatly 
altered  his  position.  He  was  no  longer  courted  and  caressed 
for  the  same  vulgar  and  adventitious  circumstances  of  fortune, 
birth,  and  connections  as  before — yet  for  circumstances  that  to 
him  seemed  equally  unflattering.  He  was  not  sought  for  his 
merit,  his  intellect,  his  talents  ;  but  for  his  momentary  celeb- 
rity. He  was  an  author  in  fashion,  and  run  after  as  anything 
else  in  fashion  might  have  been.  He  was  invited,  less  to  be 
talked  to  than  to  be  stared  at.  He  was  far  too  proud  in  his 
temper,  and  too  pure  in  his  ambition,  to  feel  his  vanity  elated 
by  sharing  the  enthusiasm  of  the  circles  with  a  German  prince 
or  an  industrious  fiea.  Accordingly  he  soon  repelled  the 
advances  made  to  him,  was  reserved  and  supercilious  to  fine 
ladies,  refused  to  be  the  fashion,  and  became  very  unpopular 
with  the  literary  exclusives.  They  even  began  to  run  down 
the  works,  because  they  were  dissatisfied  with  the  author.    But 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I69 

Maltravers  had  based  his  experiments  upon  the  vast  masses  of 
the  general  Public.  He  had  called  the  people  of  his  own  and 
other  countries  to  be  his  audience  and  his  judges  ;  and  all  the 
coteries  in  the  world  could  not  have  injured  him.  He  was  like 
the  member  for  an  immense  constituency,  who  may  offend 
individuals,  so  long  as  he  keep  his  footing  with  the  body  at  large. 
But  while  he  withdrew  himself  from  the  insipid  and  the  idle,  he 
took  care  not  to  become  separated  from  the  world.  He, formed 
his  own  society  according  to  his  tastes  ;  took  pleasure  in  the 
manly  and  exciting  topics  of  the  day  ;  and  sharpened  his  obser- 
vation and  widened  his  sphere  as  an  author,  by  mixing  freely 
and  boldly  with  all  classes  as  a  citizen.  But  literature  became 
to  him  as  art  to  the  artist — as  his  mistress  to  the  lover — an 
engrossing  and  passionate  delight.  He  made  it  his  glorious  and 
divine  profession — he  loved  it  as  a  profession — he  devoted  to 
its  pursuits  and  honors  his  youth,  cares,  dreams — his  mind,  and 
his  heart,  and  his  soul.  He  was  a  silent  but  intense  enthusiast 
in  the  priesthood  he  had  entered.  From  literature  he  imag- 
ined had  come  all  that  makes  nations  enlightened  and  men 
humane.  And  he  loved  Literature  the  more,  because  her  dis- 
tinctions were  not  those  of  the  world — because  she  had  neither 
ribands,  nor  stars,  nor  high  places  at  her  command.  A  name 
in  the  deep  gratitude  and  hereditary  delight  of  men — this  was 
the  title  she  bestowed.  Hers  was  the  Great  Primitive  Church 
of  the  world,  without  Popes  or  Muftis — sinecures,  pluralities, 
and  hierarchies.  Her  servants  spoke  to  the  earth  as  the  pro- 
phets of  old,  anxious  only  to  be  heard  and  believed.  Full  of 
this  fanaticism,  Ernest  Maltravers  pursued  his  way  in  the  great 
procession  of  the  myrtle-bearers  to  the  sacred  shrine.  He  carried 
the  thyrsus,  and  he  believed  in  the  god.  By  degrees  his  fanat- 
icism worked  in  him  the  philosophy  which  De  Montaigne 
would  have  derived  from  sober  calculation  ;  it  made  him  indif- 
ferent to  the  thorns  in  the  path,  to  the  storms  in  the  sky.  He 
learned  to  despise  the  enmity  he  provoked,  the  calumnies  that 
assailed  him.  Sometimes  he  was  silent,  but  sometimes  he 
retorted.  Like  a  soldier  who  serves  a  cause,  he  believed  that 
when  the  cause  was  injured  in  his  person,  the  weapons  con- 
fided to  his  hands  might  be  wielded  without  fear  and  without 
reproach.  Gradually  he  became  feared  as  well  as  known.  And 
while  many  abused  him,  none  could  contemn. 

It  would  not  suit  the  design  of  this  work  to  follow  Maltravers 
step  by  step  in  his  course.  I  am  only  describing  the  principal 
events,  not  the  minute  details,  of  his  intellectual  life.  Of  the 
character  of  his  works  it  will  be  enough  to  say  that,  whatevei: 


170  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

their  faults,  they  were  original — they  were  his  own.  He  did 
not  write  according  to  copy,  nor  compile  from  commonplace- 
books.  He  was  an  artist,  it  is  true, — for  what  is  genius  itself 
but  art  ?  but  he  took  laws,  and  harmony,  and  order,  from  the 
great  code  of  Truth  and  Nature  ;  a  code  that  demands  intense 
and  relaxing  study — though  its  first  principles  are  few  and 
simple  ;  that  study  Maltravers  did  not  shrink  from.  It  was  a 
deep  love  of  truth  that  made  him  a  subtle  and  searching  analyst, 
even  in  what  the  dull  world  considers  trifles  ;  for  he  knows 
that  nothing  in  literature  is  in  itself  trifling — that  it  is  often  but 
a  hair's  breadth  that  divides  a  truism  from  a  discovery.  He 
was  the  more  original  because  he  sought  rather  after  the  True 
than  the  New.  No  two  minds  are  ever  the  same  ;  and  there- 
fore any  man  who  will  give  us  fairly  and  frankly  the  results  of 
his  own  impressions,  uninfluenced  by  the  servilities  of  imitation, 
will  be  original.  But  it  was  not  from  originality,  which  really 
made  his  predominant  merit,  that  Maltravers  derived  his  repu- 
tation, for  his  originality  was  not  of  that  species  which  generally 
dazzles  the  vulgar — it  was  not  extravagant  nor  bizarre — he 
affected  no  system  and  no  school.  Many  authors  of  his  day 
seemed  more  novel  and  umgue  to  the  superficial.  Profound 
and  durable  invention  proceeds  by  subtle  and  fine  gradations — 
it  has  nothing  to  do  with  those  jerks  and  starts,  those  convul- 
sions and  distortions,  which  belong  not  to  the  vigor  and  health, 
but  to  the  epilepsy  and  disease,  of  Literature. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Being  got  out  of  town,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  my  mule  her 
head." — Gil  Bias. 

Although  the  character  of  Maltravers  was  gradually  be- 
coming more  hard  and  severe, — although  as  his  reason  grew 
more  muscular,  his  imagination  lost  something  of  its  early 
bloom,  and  he  was  already  very  different  from  the  wild  boy 
who  had  set  the  German  youths  in  a  blaze,  and  had  changed 
into  a  Castle  of  Indolence  the  little  cottage,  tenanted  with 
Poetry  and  Alice, — he  still  preserved  many  of  his  old  habits  ; 
he  loved,  at  frequent  intervals,  to  disappear  from  the  great 
world — to  get  rid  of  books  and  friends,  and  luxury  and  wealth, 
and  make  solitary  excursions,  sometimes  on  foot,  sometimes  on 
horseback,  through  this  fair  gai'den  of  England. 

l\  w^s  on?  sof^  May-day  that  h?  fQupd  himself  qw  §\jgh  an 


ERNEST  MALTR AVERS.  17I 

expedition,  slowly  riding  through  one  of  the  green  lanes  of 
shire.  His  cloak  and  his  saddle-bags  comprised  all  his  bag- 
gage, and  the  world  was  before  him  "where  to  choose  his  place  of 
rest."  The  lane  wound  at  length  into  the  main  road,  and  just 
as  he  came  upon  it,  he  fell  in  with  a  gay  party  of  equestrians. 

Foremost  of  the  cavalcade  rode  a  lady  in  a  dark-green  habit, 
mounted  on  a  thoroughbred  English  horse,  which  she  man- 
aged with  so  easy  a  grace  thatMaltravers  halted  in  involuntary 
admiration.  He  himself  was  a  consummate  horseman,  and  he 
had  the  quick  eye  of  sympathy  for  those  who  shared  the  ac- 
complishment. He  thought,  as  he  gazed,  that  he  had  never 
seen  but  one  woman,  whose  air  and  mien  on  horseback  were  so 
full  of  that  nameless  elegance  which  skill  and  courage  in  any 
art  naturally  bestow — that  woman  was  Valerie  de  Ventadour. 
Presently,  to  his  great  surprise,  the  lady  advanced  from  her 
companions,  neared  Maltravers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  which  he 
did  not  at  first  distinctly  recognize — "  Is  it  possible  ! — do  I  see 
Mr.  Maltravers  ?" 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  threw  aside  her  veil,  and 
Ernest  beheld — Madame  de  Ventadour !  By  this  time  a  tall, 
thin  gentleman  had  joined  the  Frenchwoman. 

"  Has  tnadame  met  with  an  acquaintance  ? "  said  he  ;  "  and, 
if  so,  will  she  permit  me  to  partake  her  pleasure  ?" 

The  interruption  seemed  a  relief  to  Valerie  ; — she  smiled  and 
colored. 

**  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Maltravers.  Mr.  Maltravers, 
this  is  my  host.  Lord  Doningdale." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed,  the  rest  of  the  cavalcade  sur- 
rounded the  trio,  and  Lord  Doningdale,  with  a  stately  yet  frank 
courtesy,  invited  Maltravers  to  return  with  the  party  to  his 
house,  which  was  about  four  miles  distant.  As  may  be  sup- 
posed, Ernest  readily  accepted  the  invitation.  The  cavalcade 
proceeded,  and  Maltravers  hastened  to  seek  an  explanation 
from  Valerie.  It  was  soon  given.  Madame  de  Ventadour  had 
a  younger  sister,  who  had  lately  married  a  son  of  Lord  Doning- 
dale. The  marriage  had  been  solemnized  in  Paris,  and  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  de  Ventadour  had  been  in  England  a  week 
on  a  visit  to  the  English  peer. 

The  rencontre  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected,  that  neither 
recovered  sufficient  self-possession  for  fluent  conversation. 
The  explanation  given,  Valerie  sank  into  a  thoughtful  silence, 
and  Maltravers  rode  by  her  side  equally  taciturn,  pondering  on 
the  strange  chance  which,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  had  thrown 
them  again  together. 


I72  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Lord  Doningdale,  who  at  first  lingered  with  his  other  visi- 
tors, now  joined  them,  and  Maltravers  was  struck  with  his 
highbred  manner,  and  a  singular  and  somewhat  elaborate  polish 
in  his  emphasis  and  expression.  They  soon  entered  a  noble 
park,  which  attested  far  more  care  and  attention  than  are 
usually  bestowed  upon  those  demesnes,  so  peculiarly  English. 
Young  plantations  everywhere  contrasted  the  venerable  groves 
— new  cottages  of  picturesque  design  adorned  the  outskirts — 
and  obelisks  and  columns,  copied  from  the  antique,  and  evi- 
dently of  recent  workmanship,  gleamed  upon  them  as  they 
neared  the  house — a  large  pile,  in  which  the  fashion  of  Queen 
Anne's  day  had  been  altered  into  the  French  roofs  and  windows 
of  the  architecture  of  the  Tuileries.  "You  reside  much  in  the 
country,  I  am  sure,  my  lord,"  said  Maltravers. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lord  Doningdale,  with  a  pensive  air,  "this 
place  is  greatly  endeared  to  me.  Here  his  Majesty,  Louis 
XVIIL,  when  in  England,  honored  me  with  an  annual  visit. 
In  compliment  to  him,  I  sought  to  model  my  poor  mansion  into 
an  humble  likeness  of  his  own  palace,  so  that  he  might  as  little 
as  possible  miss  the  rights  he  had  lost.  His  own  rooms  were 
furnished  exactly  like  those  he  had  occupied  at  the  Tuileries. 
Yes,  the  place  is  endeared  to  me — I  think  of  the  old  times  with 
pride.  It  is  something  to  have  sheltered  a  Bourbon  in  his  mis- 
fortunes." 

"It  cost  milord  a  vast  sum  to  make  these  alterations,"  said 
Madame  de  Ventadour,  glancing  archly  at  Maltravers. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  lord;  and  his  face,  lately  elated, 
became  overcast — "nearly  three  hundred  thousand  pounds; 
but  what  then  ? — '^Les  souvenirs,  madame,  sont  sans  prix  ! '  " 

"  Have  you  visited  Paris  since  the  restoration.  Lord  Doning- 
dale?" asked  Maltravers. 

His  lordship  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  then  turned  his  eye 
to  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"  Nay,"  said  Valerie,  laughing,  "  I  did  not  dictate  the 
question." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  "I  have  been  to  Paris." 

"  His  Majesty  must  have  been  delighted  to  return  your  lord- 
ship's hospitality." 

Lord  Doningdale  looked  a  little  embarrassed,  and  made  no 
reply,  but  put  his  horse  into  a  canter. 

"You  have  galled  our  host,"  said  Valerie,  smiling.  "Louis 
XVIII.  and  his  friends  lived  here  as  long  as  they  pleased,  and 
as  sumptuously  as  they  could ;  their  visits  half-ruined  the 
Qwner,  who  is  the  model  of  a  ^entilhotnme  and  preux  chevalier^ 


EkNEST   MALTRAVERS,  I73 

He  went  to  Paris  to  witness  their  triumph  ;  he  expected,  I 
fancy,  the  order  of  the  St.  Esprit.  Lord  Doningdale  has  royal 
blood  in  his  veins.  His  Majesty  asked  him  once  to  dinner, 
and,  when  he  took  leave,  said  to  him,  '  We  are  happy.  Lord 
Doningdale,  to  have  thus  requited  our  obligations  to  your  lord- 
ship.' Lord  Doningdale  went  back  in  dudgeon,  yet  l.e  still 
boasts  of  his  souvenirs,  poor  man." 

' '  Princes  are  not  grateful,  neither  are  republics,"  said  Mal- 
travers. 

"Ah  !  who  is  grateful,"  rejoined  Valerie,  "except  a  dog  and 
a  woman  ?" 

Maltravers  found  himself  ushered  into  a  vast  dressing-room, 
and  was  informed  by  a  French  valet,  that,  in  the  country,  Lord 
Doningdale  dined  at  six — the  first  bell  would  ring  in  a  few 
minutes.  While  the  valet  was  speaking,  Lord  Doningdale 
entered  the  room.  His  lordship  had  learned,  in  the  mean- 
while, that  Maltravers  was  of  the  great  and  ancient  commoners' 
house,  whose  honors  were  centred  in  his  brother ;  and  yet 
more,  that  he  was  the  Mr.  Maltravers  whose  writings  every  one 
talked  of,  whether  for  praise  or  abuse.  Lord  Doningdale  had 
the  two  characteristics  of  a  high-bred  gentleman  of  the  old 
school — respect  for  birth  and  respect  for  talent ;  he  was,  there- 
fore, more  than  ordinarily  courteous  to  Ernest,  and  pressed 
him  to  stay  some  days  with  so  much  cordiality,  that  Maltravers 
could  not  but  assent.  His  travelling  toilet  was  scanty,  but 
Maltravers  thought  little  of  dress. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

"  It  is  the  soul  that  sees.  The  outward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  mind  descries  : 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  cool  indifference  rise." — Crabbe. 

When  Maltravers  entered  the  enormous  saloon,  hung  with 
damask,  and  decorated  with  the  ponderous  enrichments  and 
furniture  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  (that  most  showy  and  bar- 
barous of  all  tastes,  which  has  nothing  in  it  of  the  graceful, 
nothing  of  the  picturesque,  and,  which,  nowadays,  people  who 
should  know  better  imitate  with  a  ludicrous  servility),  he  found 
sixteen  persons  assembled.  His  host  stepped  up  from  a  circle 
which  surrounded  him,  and  formally  presented  his  new  visitor 
to  the  rest.  He  was  struck  with  the  likeness  which  the  sister 
of  Valerie  bore  to  Valerie  herself ;   but  it  was  a  sober  and 


174  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS, 

chastened  likeness — less  handsome,  less  impressive.  Mrs. 
George  Herbert — such  was  the  name  she  now  owned — was  a 
pretty,  shrinking,  timid  girl,  fond  of  her  husband,  and  mightily 
awed  by  her  father-in-law.  Maltravers  sat  by  her,  and  drew 
her  into  conversation.  He  could  not  help  pitying  the  poor 
lady,  when  he  found  she  was  to  live  altogether  at  Uoningdale 
Park — remote  from  all  the  friends  and  habits  of  her  childhood 
— alone,  so  far  as  the  affections  were  concerned,  with  a  young 
husband — who  was  passionately  fond  of  field-sports,  and  who, 
from  the  few  words  Ernest  exchanged  with  him,  seemed  to 
have  only  three  ideas — his  dogs,  his  horses,  and  his  wife. 
Alas  !  the  last  would  soon  be  the  least  in  importance.  It  is  a  sad 
position — that  of  a  lively  young  Frenchwoman,  entombed  in  an 
English  country-house  !  Marriages  with  foreigners  are  seldom 
fortunate  experiments !  But  Ernest's  attention  was  soon 
diverted  from  the  sister  by  the  entrance  of  Valerie  herself, 
leaning  on  her  husband's  arm.  Hitherto  he  had  not  very 
minutely  observed  what  change  time  had  effected  in  her — per- 
haps he  was  half  afraid.  He  now  gazed  at  her  with  curious 
interest.  Valerie  was  still  extremely  handsome,  but  her  face 
had  grown  sharper,  her  form  thinner  and  more  angular ;  there 
was  something  in  her  eye  and  lip,  discontented,  almost  queru- 
lous ; — such  is  the  too  common  expression  in  the  face  of  those 
born  to  love,  and  condemned  to  be  indifferent.  The  little 
sister  was  more  to  be  envied  of  the  two — come  what  may,  she 
loved  her  husband,  such  as  he  was,  and  her  heart  might  ache, 
but  it  was  not  with  a  void. 

Monsieur  de  Ventadour  soon  shuffled  up  to  Maltravers — his 
nose  longer  than  ever. 

"Hein — hein — how  d'ye  do — how  d'ye  do? — charmed  to  see 
you — saw  madame  before  me — hein — hein — I  suspect — I  sus- 
pect— " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  will  you  give  Madame  de  Ventadour  your 
arm?"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  as  he  stalked  on  to  the  dining- 
room  with  a  duchess  on  his  own. 

"  And  you  have  left  Naples,"  said  Maltravers :  "  left  it  for 
good  ?" 

"  We  do  not  think  of  returning." 

"It  was  a  charming  place — how  I  loved  it ! — how  well  I  re- 
member it ! "  Ernest  spoke  calmly — it  was  but  a  general  remark. 

Valerie  sighed  gently. 

During  dinner,  the  conversation  between  Maltravers  and 
Madame  de  Ventadour  was  vague  and  embarrassed.  Ernest 
ivas  no  longer  in  love  with  her — he  had  outgrown  that  youthful 


ERNESt   MALTRAVERS.  175 

fancy.  She  had  exercised  influence  over  him — the  new  influ- 
ences that  he  had  created,  had  chased  away  her  image.  Such 
is  life.  Long  absences  extinguish  all  the  false  lights,  though 
not  the  true  ones.  The  lamps  are  dead  in  the  banquet-room 
of  yesterday ;  but  a  thousand  years  hence,  and  the  stars  we 
look  on  to-night  will  burn  as  brightly.  Maltravers  was  no 
longer  in  love  with  Valerie.  But  Valerie — ah,  perhaps  hers 
had  been  true  love  ! 

Maltravers  was  surprised  when  he  came  to  examine  the  state 
of  his  own  feelings — he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  pulse  did 
not  beat  quicker  at  the  touch  of  one  whose  very  glance  had 
once  thrilled  him  to  the  soul — he  was  surprised,  but  rejoiced. 
He  was  no  longer  anxious  to  seek  but  to  shun  excitement,  and 
he  was  a  better  and  a  higher  being  than  he  had  been  on  the 
shores  of  Naples. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Whence  that  low  voice,  a  whisper  from  the  heart, 
That  told  of  days  long  past  ?  " — Wordsworth. 

Ernest  stayed  several  days  at  Lord  Doningdale's,  and  every 
day  he  rode  out  with  Valerie,  but  it  was  with  a  large  party ; 
and  every  evening  he  conversed  with  her,  but  the  whole  world 
might  have  overheard  what  they  said.  In  fact,  the  sympathy 
that  had  once  existed  between  the  young  dreamer  and  the 
proud,  discontented  woman  had  in  much  passed  away.  Awak- 
ened to  vast  and  grand  objects,  Maltravers  was  a  dreamer  no 
more.  Inured  to  the  life  of  trifles  she  had  once  loathed,  Val- 
erie had  settled  down  into  the  usages  and  thoughts  of  the  com- 
mon world — she  had  no  longer  the  superiority  of  earthly  wisdom 
over  Maltravers,  and  his  romance  was  sobered  in  its  eloquence, 
and  her  ear  dulled  to  its  tone.  Still  Ernest  felt  a  deep  interest 
in  her,  and  still  she  seemed  to  feel  a  sensitive  pride  in  his  career. 

One  evening  Maltravers  had  joined  a  circle  in  which  Madame 
de  Ventadour,  with  more  than  her  usual  animation,  presided — 
and  to  which  in  her  pretty,  womanly,  and  thoroughly  French 
way,  she  was  lightly  laying  down  the  law  on  a  hundred  sub- 
jects— Philosophy,  Poetry,  Sevres  china,  and  the  Balance  of 
Power  in  Europe.  Ernest  listened  to  her,  delighted,  but  not 
enchanted.  Yet  Valerie  was  not  natural  that  night — she  was 
speaking  from  forced  spirits. 

"  Well,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour  at  last,  tired,  perhaps, 
of  the  part  she  had  been  playing,  and  bringing  to  a  sudden 


176  £RNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

close  an  animated  description  of  the  then  French  court — "well, 
see  now  if  we  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves — our  talk 
has  positively  interrupted  the  music.  Did  you  see  Lord  Don- 
ingdale  stop  it  with  a  bow  to  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  with  his 
courtly  reproof, — 'It  shall  not  disturb  you,  Madam  ?*  I  will  no 
longer  be  accessory  to  your  crime  of  bad  taste  !  " 

With  this  the  Frenchwoman  rose,  and,  gliding  through  the 
circle,  retired  to  the  further  end  of  the  room.  Ernest  followed 
her  with  his  eyes.  Suddenly  she  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  ap- 
proached and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  Valerie,  then,  with  great  sweetness 
in  her  voice, — "  I  have  not  yet  expressed  to  you  the  delight  I 
have  felt  from  your  genius.  In  absence  you  have  suffered  nie 
to  converse  with  you — your  books  have  been  to  me  dear  friends; 
as  we  shall  soon  part  again,  let  me  now  tell  you  of  this,  frankly 
and  without  compliment." 

This  paved  the  way  to  a  conversation  that  approached  more 
on  the  precincts  of  the  past  than  any  they  had  yet  known.  But 
Ernest  was  guarded,  and  Valerie  watched  his  words  and  looks 
with  an  interest  she  could  not  conceal — an  interest  that  par- 
took of  disappointment. 

"It  is  an  excitement,"  said  Valerie,  "  to  climb  a  mountain, 
though  it  fatigue  ;  and  though  the  clouds  may  even  deny  us  a 
prospect  from  its  summit — it  is  an  excitement  that  gives  a  very 
universal  pleasure,  and  that  seems  almost  as  if  it  were  the  result 
of  a  common  human  instinct,  which  makes  us  desire  to  rise — to 
get  above  the  ordinary  thoroughfares  and  level  of  Ife.  Some 
such  pleasure  you  must  have  in  intellectual  ambition,  in  which 
the  mind  is  the  upward  traveller." 

"  It  is  not  the  ambition  that  pleases,"  replied  Maltravers,  "  it 
is  the  following  a  path  congenial  to  our  tastes,  and  made  dear 
to  us  in  a  short  time  by  habit.  The  moments  in  which  we  look 
beyond  our  work,  and  fancy  ourselves  seated  beneath  the  Ever- 
lasting Laurel,  are  few.  It  is  the  work  itself,  whether  of  action 
or  literature,  that  interests  and  excites  us.  And  at  length  the 
dryness  of  toil  takes  the  familiar  sweetness  of  custom.  But  in 
intellectual  labor  there  is  another  charm — we  become  more  in- 
timate with  our  own  nature.  The  heart  and  the  soul  grow 
friends,  as  it  were,  and  the  affections  and  aspirations  unite. 
Thus,  we  are  never  without  society — we  are  never  alone  ;  all 
that  we  have  read,  learned,  and  discovered,  is  company  to  us. 
This  is  pleasant,"  added  Maltravers,  "  to  those  who  have  no 
dear  connections  in  the  world  without." 

"  And  is  that  your  case  ? "  asked  Valerie,  with  a  timid  smile. 


leRNEST    MALTRAVEkg.  1^7 

"  Alas,  yes  !  and  since  I  conquered  one  affection,  Madame 
de  Ventadour,  I  almost  think  -I  have  outlived  the  capacity  of 
loving.  I  believe  that  when  we  cultivate  very  largely  the  reason 
or  the  imagination,  we  blunt,  to  a  certain  extent,  our  young 
susceptibilities  to  tlie  fair  impressions  of  real  life.  From  'idle- 
ness,' says  the  old  Roman  poet,  *  Love  feeds  his  torch.'" 

"  You  are  too  young  to  talk  thus." 

"  I  speak  as  I  feel." 

Valerie  said  no  more. 

Shortly  afterwards  Lord  Doningdale  approached  them,  and 
proposed  that  they  should  make  an  excursion  the  next  day  to 
see  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey,  some  few  miles  distant. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  If  I  should  meet  thee 
After  long  years, 
How  shall  I  greet  thee  ?  " — Byron. 

It  was  a  smaller  party  than  usual  the  next  day,  consisting 
only  of  Lord  Doningdale,  his  son  George  Herbert,  Valerie,  and 
Ernest.  They  were  returning  from  the  ruins,  and  the  sun,  now 
gradually  approaching  the  west,  threw  its  slant  rays  over  the 
gardens  and  houses  of  a  small,  picturesque  town,  or,  perhaps, 
rather  village,  on  the  high  North  Road.  It  is  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest places  in  England,  that  town  or  village,  and  boasts  an 
excellent  old-fashioned  inn,  with  a  large  and  quaint  pleasure- 
garden.  It  was  through  the  long  and  straggling  street  that  our 
little  party  slowly  rode,  when  the  sky  became  suddenly  overcast, 
and  a  few  large  hailstones  falling,  gave  notice  of  an  approach- 
ing storm. 

"I  told  you  we  should  not  get  safely  through  the  day,"  said 
George  Herbert.     *'  Now  we  are  in  for  it." 

"  George,  that  is  a  vulgar  expression,"  said  Lord  Doningdale, 
buttoning  up  his  coat.  While  he  spoke,  a  vivid  flash  of  light- 
ning darted  across  their  very  path,  and  the  sky  grew  darker 
and  darker. 

"We  may  as  well  rest  at  the  inn,"  said  Maltravers  :  "the 
storm  is  coming  on  apace,  and  Madame  de  Ventadour — " 

"You  are  right,"  interrupted  Lord  Doningdale;  and  he  put 
his  horse  into  a  canter. 

They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  the  old  hotel.  Bells  rang — 
dogs  barked — hostlers   ran.     A   plain,   dark,  travelling  post- 


I7S  £RNESt   MALtfeAVfifeS. 

chariot  was  before  the  inn-door  ;  and,  roused  perhaps  by  the 
noise  below,  a  lady  in  the  "  first-floor  front,  No.  2,"  came  to  the 
window.  This  lady  owned  the  travelling-carriage,  and  was  at 
this  time  alone  in  that  apartment.  As  she  looked  carelessly  at 
the  party,  her  eyes  rested  on  one  form — she  turned  pale,  uttered 
a  faint  cry,  and  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  Doningdale  and  liis  guests  were  shown  into 
the  room  next  to  that  tenanted  by  the  lady.  Properly  speaking, 
both  the  rooms  made  one  long  apartment  for  balls  and  county 
meetings,  and  the  division  was  formed  by  a  thin  partition,  re- 
movable at  pleasure.  The  hail  now  came  on  fast  and  heavy, 
the  trees  groaned,  the  thunder  roared  ;  and  in  the  large,  dreary 
room  there  was  a  palpable  and  oppressive  sense  of  coldness  and 
discomfort.  Valerie  shivered — a  fire  was  lighted — and  the 
Frenchwoman  drew  near  to  it. 

"You  are  wet,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Lord  Doningdale.  "You 
should  take  off  that  close  habit,  and  have  it  dried." 

"  Oh,  no  :  what  matters  it  ? "  said  Valerie,  bitterly,  and  al- 
most rudely. 

"  It  matters  everything,"  said  Ernest ,  "pray  be  ruled." 

"  And  you  do  care  for  me? "  murmured  Valerie. 

"  Can  you  ask  that  question  ?  "  replied  Ernest,  in  the  same 
tone,  and  with  affectionate  and  friendly  warmth. 

Meanwhile  the  good  old  lord  had  summoned  the  chamber- 
maid, and,  with  the  kindly  imperiousness  of  a  father,  made 
Valerie  quit  the  room.  The  three  gentlemen,  left  together, 
talked  of  the  storm,  wondered  how  long  it  would  last,  and  de- 
bated the  propriety  of  sending  to  Doningdale  for  the  carriage. 
While  they  spoke,  the  hail  suddenly  ceased,  though  clouds 
in  the  distant  horizon  were  bearing  heavily  up  to  renew  the  charge. 
George  Herbert,  who  was  the  most  impatient  of  mortals,  espe- 
cially of  rainy  weather  in  a  strange  place,  seized  the  occasion,  and 
insisted  on  riding  to  Doningdale,  and  sending  back  the  carriage. 

"Surely  a  groom  would  do  as  well,  George,"  said  the  father. 

"  My  dear  father,  no  ;  I  should  envy  the  rogue  too  much.  I 
am  bored  to  death  here.  Marie  will  be  frightened  about  us. 
Brown  Bess  will  take  me  back  in  twenty  minutes.  I  am  a 
hardy  fellow,  you  know.     Good-bye." 

Away  darted  the  young  sportsman,  and  in  two  minutes  they 
saw  him  spur  gaily  from  the  inn-door. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  /  should  have  such  a  son,"  said  Lord 
Doningdale,  musingly — "a  son  who  cannot  amuse  himself  in- 
doors for  two  minutes  together.  I  took  great  pains  with  his 
education,  too.    Strange  that  people  should  weary  so  much  of 


ERNEST   MALtRAVERS.  fj^ 

themselves  that  they  cannot  brave  the  prospect  of  a  few  minutes 
passed  in  reflection — that  a  shower  and  the  resources  of  their  own 
thoughts  are  evils  so  galling — very  strange  indeed.  But  it  is  a  con- 
founded climate  this,  certainly.     I  wonder  when  it  will  clear  up." 

Thus  muttering,  Lord  Doningdale  walked,  or  rather  marched, 
to  and  fro  the  room,  with  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  and  his 
whip  sticking  perpendicularly  out  of  the  right  one.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  waiter  came  to  announce  that  his  lordship's 
groom  was  without,  and  desired  much  to  see  him.  Lord  Don- 
ingdale had  then  the  pleasure  of  learning  that  his  favorite  gray 
hackney,  which  he  had  ridden,  winter  and  summer,  for  fifteen 
years,  was  taken  with  shivers,  and,  as  the  groom  expressed  it, 
seemed  to  have  "  the  collar  [cholera  ?J  in  its  bowels  !  " 

Lord  Doningdale  turned  pale,  and  hurried  to  the  stables  with- 
out saying  a  word. 

Maltravers,  who,  plunged  in  thought,  had  not  overhead  the 
low  and  brief  conference  between  master  and  groom,  remained 
alone,  seated  by  the  fire,  his  head  buried  in  his  bosom,  and  his 
arms  folded. 

Meanwhile  the  lady  who  occupied  the  adjoining  chamber  had 
recovered  slowly  from  her  swoon.  She  put  both  hands  to  her 
temples,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  her  thoughts.  Hers  was  a  fair, 
innocent,  almost  childish  face  ;  and  now,  as  a  smile  shot  across 
it,  there  was  something  so  sweet  and  touching  in  the  gladness  it 
shed  over  that  countenance,  that  you  could  'not  have  seen  it 
without  strong  and  almost  painful  interest.  For  it  was  the  glad- 
ness of  a  person  who  has  known  sorrow.  Suddenly  she  started 
up,  and  said — "  No — then  !  I  do  not  dream.  He  is  comeback — 
he  is  here — all  will  be  well  again  !  Ha  !  it  is  his  voice.  Oh, 
bless  him,  it  is  /us  voice  !  "  She  paused,  her  finger  on  her  lip. 
her  face  bent  down.  A  low  and  indistinct  sound  of  voices 
reached  her  straining  ear  through  the  thin  door  that  divided 
her  from  Maltravers.  She  listened  intently,  but  she  could  not 
overhear  the  import.  Her  heart  beat  violently.  "  He  is  not 
alone  !  "  she  murmured  mournfully.  "  I  will  wait  till  the  sound 
ceases,  and  then  I  will  venture  in  ! " 

And  what  was  the  conversation  carried  on  in  that  chamber? 
We  must  return  to  Ernest.  He  was  sitting  in  the  same  thought- 
ful posture  when  Madame  de  Ventadour  returned.  The  French- 
woman colored  when  she  found  herself  alone  with  Ernest,  and 
Ernest  himself  was  not  at  his  ease. 

"  Herbert  has  gone  home  to  order  the  carriage,  and  Lord 
Doningdale  has  disappeared,  I  scarce  know  whither.  You  do 
not,  I  trust,  feel  the  worse  for  the  rain  ?  " 


l8o  fifeNEST   MALTrAVERS. 

"  No,"  said  Valerie. 

"Shall  you  have  any  commands  in  London  ?"  asked  Mal- 
travers  ;  "  I  return  to  town  to-morrow." 

"So  soon  !  "  and  Valerie  sighed.  "Ah  !  "  she  added,  after  a 
pause,  "  we  shall  not  meet  again  for  years,  perhaps.  Monsieur 
de  Ventadour  is  to  be  appointed  ambassador  to  the  —  Court  — 
and  so — and  so — Well,  it  is  no  matter.  What  has  become  of 
the  friendship  we  once  swore  to  each  other  ?  " 

"  It  is  here,"  said  Maltravers,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
"  Here,  at  least,  lies  the  half  of  that  friendship  which  was  my 
charge ;  and  more  than  friendship,  Valerie  de  Ventadour — re- 
spect— admiration — gratitude.  At  a  time  of  life,  when  passion 
and  fancy,  most  strong,  might  have  left  me  an  idle  and  worth- 
less voluptuary,  you  convinced  me  that  the  world  has  virtue, 
and  that  woman  is  too  noble  to  be  our  toy — the  idol  of  to-day, 
the  victim  of  to-morrow.  Your  influence,  Valerie,  left  me  a 
more  thoughtful  man — I  hope  abetter  one." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Madame  de  Ventadour,  strongly  affected  ;  "  I 
bless  you  for  what  you  tell  me :  you  cannot  know — you  cannot 
guess  how  sweet  it  is  to  me.  Now  I  recognize  you  once  more. 
What — what  did  my  resolution  cost  me  ?     Now  I  am  repaid  ! " 

Ernest  was  moved  by  her  emotion,  and  by  his  own  remembran- 
ces ;  he  took  her  hand,  and  pressing  it  with  frank  and  respect- 
ful tenderness — "  I  did  not  think,  Valerie,"  said  he,  "when  I 
reviewed  the  past,  I  did  not  think  that  you  loved  me — I  was  not 
vain  enough  for  that ;  but,  if  so,  how  much  is  your  character 
raised  in  my  eyes — how  provident,  how  wise  your  virtue  !  Hap- 
pier and  better  for  both,  our  present  feelings,  each  to  each,  than 
if  we  had  indulged  a  brief  and  guilty  dream  of  passion,  at  war 
with  all  that  leaves  passion  without  remorse,  and  bliss  without 
alloy.     Now — " 

"Now,"  interrupted  Valerie,  quickly,  and  fixing  on  him  her 
dark  eyes — "  now  you  love  me  no  longer !  Yes,  it  is  better  so. 
Well,  I  will  go  back  to  my  cold  and  cheerless  state  of  life,  and 
forget  once  more  that  Heaven  endowed  me  with  a  heart !  " 

"  Ah,  Valerie  !  esteemed,  revered,  still  beloved,  not  indeed 
with  the  fires  of  old,  but  with  a  deep,  undying,  and  holy  tender- 
ness, speak  not  thus  to  me.  Let  me  not  believe  you  unhappy; 
let  me  think  that,  wise,  sagacious,  brilliant  as  you  are,  you  have 
employed  your  gifts  to  reconcile  yourself  to  a  common  lot. 
Still  let  me  look  up  to  you  when  I  would  despise  the  circles  in 
which  you  live,  and  say — *  On  that  pedestal  an  altar  is  yet 
placed,  to  which  the  heart  may  bring  the  offerings  of  the  soul.'  " 

"  It  is  in  vain — in  vain  that  I  struggle,"  said  Valerie,  half- 


ERNEST    MALTKAVKRS.  iSl 

choked  with  emotion,  and  clasping  lier-  hands  passionately. 
"  Ernest,  I  love  you  still — I  am  wretched  to  think  you  love  me 
no  more  :  I  would  give  you  nothing — yet  I  exact  all;  my  youth 
is  going — my  beauty  dimmed — my  very  intellect  is  dulled  by 
the  life  I  lead  ;  and  yet  I  ask  from  you  that  which  your  young 
heart  once  felt  for  me.  Despise  me,  Maltravers,  I  am  not  what 
I  seemed — I  am  a  hypocrite — despise  me." 

"  No,"  said  Ernest,  again  possessing  himself  of  her  hand,  and 
falling  on  his  knee  by  her  side.  "  No,  never  to  be  forgotten, 
ever  to  be  honored  Valerie,  hear  me."  As  he  spoke,  he  kissed 
the  hand  he  held;  with  the  other,  Valerie  covered  her  face  and 
wept  bitterly,  but  in  silence.  Ernest  paused  till  the  burst  of 
her  feelings  had  subsided,  her  hand  still  in  his — still  warmed 
by  his  kisses — kisses  as  pure  as  cavalier  ever  impressed  on  the 
hand  of  his  queen. 

At  this  time,  the  door  communicating  with  the  next  room 
gently  opened.  A  fair  form — a  form  fairer  and  younger  than 
thatof  Valerie  deVentadour — entered  the  apartment;  the  silence 
had  deceived  her — she  believed  that  Maltravers  was  alone. 
She  entered  with  her  heart  upon  her  lips;  love,  sanguine,  hope- 
lul  love  in  every  vein,  in  every  thought — she  had  entered, 
dreaming  that  across  that  threshold  life  would  dawn  upon  her 
afresh — that  all  would  be  once  more  as  it  had  been,  when  the 
common  air  was  rapture.  Thus  she  entered,  and  now  she  stood 
spellbound,  terror-stricken,  pale  as  death — life  turned  to  stone — 
youth — hope — bliss  were  ever  over  to  her  !  Ernest  kneeling  to 
another  was  all  she  saw  ! — For  this  she  had  been  faithful  and 
true,  amidst  storm  and  desolation  ;  for  this  she  had  hoped — 
dreamed — lived.  They  did  not  note  her  ;  she  was  unseen 
— unheard.  And  Ernest,  who  would  have  gone  barefoot 
to  the  end  of  the  earth  to  find  her,  was  in  the  very  room  with 
her,  and  knew  it  not  ! 

"  Call  me  again  beloved!  "  said  Valerie,  very  softly, 

"Beloved  Valerie,  hear  me." 

These  words  were  enough  for  the  listener  ;  she  turned  noise- 
lessly away  :  humble  as  that  heart  was,  it  was  proud.  The  door 
closed  on  her — she  had  obtained  the  wish  of  her  whole  being — 
Heaven  had  heard  her  prayer — she  had  once  more  seen  the  lover 
of  her  youth  ;  and  thenceforth  all  was  night  and  darkness  to 
her.  What  matter  what  became  of  her  ?  One  moment,  what 
an  effect  it  produces  upon  years  ! — one  moment  ! — virtue,  crime, 
glory,  shame,  woe,  rapture,  rest  upon  moments  !  Death  itself 
is  but  a  moment,  yet  Eternity  is  its  successor ! 

"H^ar  me,"  continued   Ernest^  uncon^Qioug   of  what  ha4 


l82  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

passed — "hear  me  ;  let  us  be  what  human  nature  and  worldly 
forms  seldom  allow  those  of  opposite  sexes  to  be — friends  to  each 
other,  and  to  virtue  also — friends  through  time  and  absence — 
friends  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life — friends  on  whose 
affection  shame  and  remorse  never  cast  a  shade — friends  who 
are  to  meet  hereafter  !  Oh  !  there  is  no  attachment  so  true,  no 
tie  so  holy,  as  that  which  is  founded  on  the  old  chivalry  of 
loyalty  and  honor;  and  which  is  what  love  would  be,  if  the  heart 
and  the  soul  were  unadulterated  by  clay." 

There  was  in  Ernest's  countenance  an  expression  so  noble, 
in  his  voice  a  tone  so  thrilling,  that  Valerie  was  brought  back  at 
once  to  the  nature  which  a  momentary  weakness  had  subdued. 
She  looked  at  him  with  an  admiring  and  grateful  gaze,  and  then 
said  in  a  calm  but  low  voice,  "  Ernest,  I  understand  you  ;  yes, 
your  friendship  is  dearer  to  me  than  love." 

At  this  time  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lord  Doningdale  on  the 
stairs.  Valerie  turned  away.  Maltravers,  as  he  rose,  extended 
his  hand  ;  she  pressed  it  warmly,  and  the  spell  was  broken,  the 
temptation  conquered,  the  ordeal  passed.  While  Lord  Doning- 
dale entered  the  room,  the  carriage,  with  Herbert  in  it,  drove  to 
the  door.  In  a  few  minutes  the  little  party  were  within  the 
vehicle.  As  they  drove  away,  the  hostlers  were  harnessing  the 
horses  to  the  dark-green  travelling-carriage.  From  the  window, 
a  sad  and  straining  eye  gazed  upon  the  gayer  equipage  of  the 
peer — that  eye  which  Maltravers  would  have  given  his  whole 
fortune  to  meet  again.  But  he  did  not  look  up ;  and  Alice 
Darvil  turned  away,  and  her  fate  was  fixed  ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

"Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known, 

And  I  will  dare  to  tell." — Wordsworth. 

"         *        *        *        The  food  of  hope 
Is  meditated  action." — Wordsworth. 

Maltravers  left  Doningdale  the  next  day.  He  had  no  further 
conversation  with  Valerie  ;  but  when  he  took  leave  of  her,  she 
placed  in  his  hand  a  letter,  which  he  read  as  he  rode  slowly 
through  the  beech  avenues  of  the  park.  Translated,  it  ran 
thus: — 

"  Others  would  despise  me  for  the  weakness  I  showed — but 
you  will  not !  It  is  the  sole  weakness  of  a  life.  None  can  know 
what  I  have  passed  through — what  hours  of  dejection  and 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  183 

gloom — I,  whom  so  many  envy  !  Better  to  have  been  a  peasant 
girl,  with  love,  than  a  queen  whose  life  is  but  a  dull  mechanism. 
You,  Maltravers,  I  never  forgot  in  absence  ;  and  your  image 
made  yet  more  wearisome  and  trite  the  things  around  me.  Years 
passed,  and  your  name  was  suddenly  in  men's  lips.  I  heard  of 
you  wherever  I  went — I  could  not  shut  you  from  me.  Your 
fame  was  as  if  you  were  conversing  by  my  side.  We  met  at  last, 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly.  I  saw  that  you  loved  me  no  more, 
and  that  thought  conquered  all  my  resolves ;  anguish  subdues 
the  nerves  of  the  mind  as  sickness  those  of  the  body.  And  thus 
I  forgot,  and  humbled,  and  might  have  undone  myself.  Juster 
and  better  thoughts  are  once  more  awakened  within  me,  and 
when  we  meet  again  I  shall  be  worthy  of  your  respect.  I  see 
how  dangerous  are  that  luxury  of  thought,  that  sin  of  discontent, 
which  I  indulged.  I  go  back  to  life  resolved  to  vanquish  all 
that  can  interfere  with  its  claims  and  duties.  Heaven  guide 
and  preserve  you,  Ernest.  Think  of  me  as  one  whom  you  will 
not  blush  to  have  loved — whom  you  will  not  blush  hereafter  to 
present  to  your  wife.  With  so  much  that  is  soft,  as  well  as  great 
within  you,  you  were  not  formed  like  me — to  be  alone. 

Farewell  ! " 

Maltravers  read,  and  re-read  this  letter ;  and  when  he  reached 
his  home,  he  placed  it  carefully  amongst  the  things  he  most 
valued.  A  lock  of  Alice's  hair  lay  beside  it — he  did  not  think 
that  either  was  dishonored  by  the  contact. 

With  an  effort,  he  turned  himself  once  more  to  those  stern 
yet  high  connections  which  literature  makes  with  real  life.  Per- 
haps there  was  a  certain  restlessness  in  his  heart  which  induced 
him  ever  to  occupy  his  mind.  That  was  one  of  the  busiest  years 
of  his  life — the  one  in  which  he  did  most  to  sharpen  jealousy 
and  confirm  fame. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

"  In  effect  he  entered  my  apartment." — Gil  Blas. 
"  I  am  surprised,  said  he,  at  the  caprice  of  fortune,  who  sometimes  delights 
in  loading  an  execrable  author  with  favors,  while  she  leaves  good  writers  to 
perish  for  want. " — GiL  Blas. 

It  was  just  twelve  months  after  his  last  interview  with  Valerie, 
and  Madame  de  Ventadour  had  long  since  quitted  England, 
when  one  morning,  as  Maltravers  sate  alone  in  his  study,  Cas- 
truccio  Cesarini  was  announced. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Castruccio,  how  are  you?"  cried  Maltravers, 
eagerly,  as  the  opening  door  presented  the  form  of  the  Italian* 


184  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"Sir,"  said  Castruccio,  with  great  stiffness,  and  speaking  in 
French,  which  was  his  wont  when  he  meant  to  be  distant — "sir, 
I  do  not  come  to  renew  our  former  acquaintance — you  are  a 
great  man  (here  a  bitter  sneer),  I  an  obscure  one  (here  Cas- 
truccio drew  liimself  up) — I  only  come  to  discharge  a  debt  to 
you  which  I  find  I  have  incurred." 

"What  tone  is  this,  Castruccio;  and  what  debt  do  you  speak 
of?" 

"On  my  arrival  in  town  yesterday,"  said  the  poet  solemnly, 
"I  went  to  the  man  whom  you  deputed  some  years  since  to 
publish  my  little  volume,  to  demand  an  account  of  its  success; 
and  I  found  that  it  had  cost  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds, 
deducting  the  sale  of  forty-nine  copies  which  had  been  sold. 
Your  books  sell  some  thousands,  I  am  told.  It  is  well  con- 
trived— mine  fell  stillborn,  no  pains  were  taken  with  it — no 
matter — (a  wave  of  the  hand).  You  discharged  this  debt,  I 
repay  you  ;  there  is  a  check  for  the  money.  Sir,  I  have  done  ! 
I  wish  you  a  good-day,  and  health  to  ^x\]oy  your  reputation." 

"Why,  Cesarini,  this  is  folly." 

"Sir—" 

"Yes,  it  is  folly  ;  for  there  is  no  folly  equal  to  that  of  throw- 
ing away  friendship  in  a  world  where  friendship  is  so  rare. 
You  insinuate  that  I  am  to  blame  for  any  neglect  which  your 
work  experienced.  Your  publisher  can  tell  you  that  I  was  more 
anxious  about  your  book  than  I  have  ever  been  about  my  own." 

"And  the  proof  is,  that  forty-nine  copies  were  sold  !  " 

"Sit  down,  Castruccio;  sit  down  and  listen  to  reason";  and 
Maltravers  proceeded  to  explain,  and  soothe,  and  console.  He 
reminded  the  poor  poet  that  his  verses  were  written  in  a  foreign 
tongue — that  even  English  poets  of  great  fame  enjoyed  but  a 
limited  sale  for  their  works — that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the 
avaricious  public  purchase  what  the  stupid  public  would  not 
take  an  interest  in — in  short,  he  used  all  those  arguments  which 
naturally  suggested  themselves  as  best  calculated  to  convince 
and  soften  Castruccio  :  and  he  did  this  with  so  much  evident 
sympathy  and  kindness,  that  at  length  the  Italian  could  no 
longer  justify  his  own  resentment.  A  reconciliation  took  place, 
sincere  on  the  part  of  Maltravers,  hollow  on  the  part  of  Cesarini; 
for  the  disappointed  author  could  not  forgive  the  successful  one. 

"  And  how  long  will  you  stay  in  London?  " 

"Some  months."    • 

"Send  for  your  luggage,  and  be  my  guest." 

"  No  ;  I  have  taken  lodgings  that  suit  me.     I  am  formed  ^9? 

§olitu4^," 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  185 

"While  you  stay  here,  you  will,  however,  go  into  the  world?" 

"Yes,  I  have  some  letters  of  introduction,  and  I  hear  that 
the  English  can  honor  merit,  even  in  an  Italian." 

"You  hear  the  truth,  and  it  will  amuse  you,  at  least,  to  see 
our  eminent  men.  They  will  receive  you  most  hospitably. 
Let  me  assist  you  as  a  cicerone." 

"  Oh,  your  valuable  time  !  " — 

"Is  at  your  disposal :  but  where  are  you  going?" 

"It  is  Sunday,  and  I  have  had  my  curiosity  excited  to  hear  a 

celebrated  preacher,  Mr. ,  who,  they  tell  me,  is  now  more 

talked  of  than  any  author  in  London." 

"They  tell  you  truly — I  will  go  with  you — I  myself  have  not 
yet  heard  him,  but  proposed  to  do  so  this  very  day." 

"Are  you  not  jealous  of  a  man  so  much  spoken  of?" 

"  Jealous  ! — why,  I  never  set  up  for  a  popular  preacher  ! — 
ce  ri  est  pas  tnon  inciter." 

"If  I  were  a  successful  author,  I  should  be  jealous  if  the 
dancing- dogs  were  talked  of." 

"No,  my  dear  Cesarini,  I  am  sure  you  would  not.  You  are  a 
little  irritated  at  present  by  natural  disappointment;  but  the 
man  who  has  as  much  success  as  he  deserves,  is  never  morbidly 
jealous,  even  of  a  rival  in  his  own  line  :  v/ant  of  success  sours 
us ;  but  a  little  sunshine  smiles  away  the  vapors.  Come,  we 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

Maltravers  took  his  hat,  and  the  two  young  men  bent  their 

way  to Chapel.     Cesarini  still  retained  the  singular  fashion 

of  his  dress,  though  it  was  now  made  of  handsomer  materials, 
and  worn  with  more  coxcombry  and  pretension.  He  had  much 
improved  in  person — had  been  admired  in  Paris  and  told  that 
he  looked  like  a  man  of  genius, — and,  with  his  black  ringlets 
flowing  over  his  shoulders,  his  long  moustache,  his  broad,  Span- 
ish-shaped hat  and  eccentric  garb,  he  certainly  did  not  look  like 
other  people.  He  smiled  with  contempt  at  the  plain  dress  of 
his  companion.  "I  see,"  said  he,  "  that  you  follow  the  fashion, 
and  look  as  if  you  passed  your  life  with  de'gans  instead  of 
students.  I  wonder  you  condescend  to  such  trifles  as  fashion- 
ably-shaped hats  and  coats." 

"It  would  be  worse  than  trifling  to  set  up  for  originality  in  hats 
and  coats,  at  least  in  sober  England.  I  was  born  a  gentleman, 
and  I  dress  my  outward  frame  like  others  of  my  order.  Because  I 
am  a  writer,  why  should  I  affect  to  be  different  from  other  men  ?  " 

"I  see  that  you  are  not  above  the  weakness  of  your  country- 
man, Congreve,"  said  Cesarini,  "who  deemed  it  finer  to  be  a 
gentleman  than  an  author." 


l86  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"I  always  thought  that  anecdote  misconstrued.  Congreve 
had  a  proper  and  manly  pride,  to  my  judgment,  when  he  ex- 
pressed a  dislike  to  be  visited  merely  as  a  raree-show." 

"But  is  it  policy  to  let  the  world  see  that  an  author  is  like 
other  people?  Would  he  not  create  a  deeper  personal  interest 
if  he  showed  that  even  in  person  alone  he  was  unlike  the  herd? 
He  ought  to  be  seen  seldom — not  to  stale  his  presence — and  to 
resort  to  the  arts  that  belong  to  the  royalty  of  intellect  as  well 
as  the  royalty  of  birth." 

"  I  dare  say  an  author,  by  a  little  charlatanism  of  that  nature, 
might  be  more  talked  of — might  be  more  adored  in  the  board- 
ing schools,  and  make  a  better  picture  in  the  exhibition.  But  I 
think,  if  his  mind  be  manly,  he  would  lose  in  self-respect  at 
every  quackery  of  the  sort.  And  my  philosophy  is,  that  to  re- 
spect oneself  is  worth  all  the  fame  in  the  world." 

Cesarini  sneered  and  shrugged  his  shoulders;  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent that  the  two  authors  had  no  sympathy  with  each  other. 

They  arrived  at  last  at  the  chapel,  and  with  some  difficulty 
procured  seats. 

Presently  the  service  began.  The  preacher  was  a  man  of  un- 
questionable talent  and  fervid  eloquence;  but  his  theatrical  arts, 
his  affected  dress,  his  artificial  tones  and  gestures,  and,  above 
all,  the  fanatical  mummeries  which  he  introduced  into  the  house 
of  God,  disgusted  Maltravers,  while  they  charmed,  entranced 
and  awed  Cesarini.  The  one  saw^  a  raontebank  and  impostor — 
the  other  recognized  a  profound  artist  and  an  inspired  prophet. 

But  while  the  discourse  was  drawing  towards  a  close,  while 
the  preacher  was  in  one  of  his  most  eloquent  bursts — the  ohs ! 
and  ahs!  of  which  were  the  grand  prelude  to  the  pathetic  per- 
oration— the  dim  outline  of  a  female  form,  in  the  distance, 
riveted  the  eyes  and  absorbed  the  thoughts  of  Maltravers.  The 
chapel  was  darkened,  though  it  was  broad  daylight;  and  the  face 
of  the  person  that  attracted  Ernest's  attention  was  concealed 
by  her  head-dress  and  veil.  Butthatbendof  the  neck,  so  simply 
graceful,  so  humbly  modest,  recalled  to  hisheart  but  one  image. 
Every  one  has,  perhaps,  observted  that  there  is  a  physiognomy 
(if  the  bull  may  be  pardoned)  oi  form  as  well  as  face,  which  it 
rarely  happens  that  two  persons  possess  in  common.  And  this, 
with  most,  is  peculiarly  marked  in  the  turn  of  the  head,  the  out- 
line of  the  shoulders,  and  the  ineffable  something  that  charac- 
terizes the  postures  of  each  individual  in  repose.  The  more  in- 
tently he  gazed,  the  more  firmly  Ernest  was  persuaded  that  he 
saw  before  him  the  long-lost,  the  never-to-be-forgotten  mistress 
of  his  boyish  days,  and  his  first  love.     On  one  side  of  the  lady 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.    '  187 

in  question  sat  an  elderly  gentleman,  whose  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  preacher;  on  the  other,  a  beautiful  little  girl,  with  long 
fair  ringlets,  and  that  cast  of  features  which,  from  its  exquisite 
delicacy  and  expressive  mildness,  painters  and  poets  call  the 
"angelic."  These  persons  appeared  tobelongto  the  same  party. 
Maltravers  literally  trembled,  so  great  were  his  impatience  and 
agitation.  Yet  still,  the  dress  of  the  supposed  likeness  of  Alice, 
the  appearance  of  her  companions,  were  so  evidently  above  the 
ordinary  rank,  that  Ernest  scarcely  ventured  to  yield  to  the 
suggestions  of  his  own  heart.  Was  it  possible  that  the  daughter 
of  Luke  Darvil,  thrown  upon  the  wide  world,  could  have  risen 
so  far  beyond  her  circumstances  and  station  ?  At  length  the 
moment  came  when  he  might  resolve  his  doubts — the  discourse 
was  concluded — the  extemporaneous  prayer  was  at  an  end — the 
congregation  broke  up,  and  Maltravers  pushed  his  way,  as  well 
as  he  could,  through  the  dense  and  serried  crowd.  But  every 
moment  some  vexatious  obstruction,  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  gen- 
tleman or  three  close-wedged  ladies,  intercepted  his  progress. 
He  lost  sight  of  the  party  in  question  amidst  the  profusion  of 
tall  bonnets  and  waving  plumes.  He  arrived  at  last,  breathless 
and  pale  as  death  (so  great  was  the  struggle  within  him),  at  the 
door  of  the  chapel.  He  arrived  in  time  to  see  a  plain  carriage 
with  servants  in  gray  undress  liveries,  driving  from  the  porch — 
and  caught  a  glimpse,  within  the  vehicle,  of  the  golden  ringlets 
of  a  child.  He  darted  forward,  he  threw  himself  almost  be- 
fore the  horses.  The  coachman  drew  in,  and  with  an  angry  ex- 
clamation, very  much  like  an  oath,  whipped  his  horses  aside  and 
went  off.  But  that  momentary  pause  sufficed.  "It  is  she — it  is! 
Oh  heaven,  it  is  Alice  !  "  murmured  Maltravers.  The  whole  place 
reeled  before  his  eyes,  and  he  clung,  overpowered  and  uncon- 
scious, to  a  neighboring  lamp-post  for  support.  But  he  recov- 
ered himself  with  an  agonizing  effort,  as  the  thought  struck  upon 
his  heart,  that  he  was  about  to  lose  sight  of  her  again  forever. 
And  he  rushed  forward,  like  one  frantic,  in  pursuit  of  the  car- 
riage. But  there  was  a  vast  crowd  of  other  carriages,  besides 
stream  upon  stream  of  foot  passengers — for  the  great  and  the 
gay  resorted  to  that  place  of  worship,  as  a  fashionable  excite- 
ment in  a  dull  day.  And  after  a  weary  and  dangerous  chase, 
in  which  he  had  been  nearly  run  over  three  times,  Maltravers 
halted  at  last,  exhausted  and  in  despair.  Every  succeeding 
Sunday,  for  months,  he  went  to  the  same  chapel,  but  in  vain; 
in  vain,  too,  he  resorted  to  every  public  haunt  of  dissipation 
and  amusement.    Alice  Darvil  he  beheld  no  more! 


»8S  tRNEST  MAtTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  Tell  me,  sir, 
Have  you  cast  up  your  state,  rated  your  land, 
And  find  it  able  to  endure  the  charge  ?  " 

The  Noble  Gentleman. 

By  degrees,  as  Maltravers  sobered  down  from  the  first  shock 
of  that  unexpected  meeting,  and  from  the  prolonged  disappoint- 
ment that  followed  it,  he  became  sensible  of  a  strange  kind  of 
happiness  or  contentment.  Alice  was  not  in  poverty,  she  was 
not  eating  the  unhallowed  bread  of  vice,  or  earning  the  bitter 
wages  of  laborious  penury.'  He  saw  her  in  reputable,  nay,  opu- 
lent circumstances.  A  dark  nightmare,  that  had  often,  amidst 
the  pleasures  of  youth,  or  the  triumphs  of  literature,  weighed 
upon  his  breast  was  removed.  He  breathed  more  freely — he 
could  sleep  in  peace.  His  conscience  could  no  longer  say  to 
him,  *'  She  who  slept  upon  thy  bosom  is  a  wanderer  upon  the 
i-ace  of  the  earth — exposed  to  every  temptation,  perishing  per- 
haps for  want."  That  single  sight  of  Alice  had  been  like  the 
apparition  of  the  injured  Dead  conjured  up  at  Heraclea — whose 
sight  could  pacify  the  aggressor  and  exorcise  the  spectres  of  re- 
morse. He  was  reconciled  with  himself,  and  walked  on  to  the 
Future  with  a  bolder  step  and  a  statelier  crest.  Was  she  mar- 
ried to  that  staid  and  sober-looking  personage  whom  he  had  be- 
held with  her?  was  that  cliild  the  offspring  of  their  union  ?  He 
almost  hoped  so — it  was  better  to  lose  than  to  destroy  her.  Poor 
Alice!  could  she  have  dreamed,  when  she  sat  at  his  feet  gazing  up 
into  his  eyes,  that  a  time  would  come  when  Maltravers  would 
thank  Heaven  for  the  belief  that  she  was  happy  with  another? 

Ernest  Maltravers  now  felt  a  new  man:  the  relief  of  con- 
science operated  on  the  efforts  of  his  genius.  A  more  buoyant 
and  elastic  spirit  entered  into  them — they  seemed  to  breathe  as 
with  a  second  youth. 

Meanwhile,  Cesarini  threw  himself  into  the  fashionable  world, 
and  to  his  own  surprise  was /i'/^^/ and  caressed.  In  fact,  Cas- 
truccio  was  exactly  the  sort  of  person  to  be  made  a  lion  of.  The 
letters  of  introduction  that  he  had  brought  from  Paris  were  ad- 
dressed to  those  great  personages  in  England  between  whom 
and  personages  equally  as  great  in  France  politics  makes  a  bridge 
of  connection.  Cesarini  appeared  to  them  as  an  accomplished 
young  man,  brother-in-law  to  a  distinguished  member  of  the 
French  Chamber.  Maltravers,  on  the  other  hand,  introduced 
him  to  the  literary  dilettanti,  who  admire  all  authors  that  are 


ERNEST    MALTKAVERS.  189 

not  rivals.  The  singular  costume  of  Cesarini,  which  would  have 
revolted  persons  in  an  Englishman,  enchanted  them  in  an  Italian. 
He  looked,  they  said,  like  a  poet.  Ladies  like  to  have  verses 
written  to  them, — and  Cesarini,  who  talked  very  little,  made  up 
for  it  by  scribbling  eternally.  The  young  man's  head  soon  grew 
filled  with  comparisons  between  himself  in  London  and  Petrarch 
at  Avignon.  As  he  had  always  thouglit  that  fame  was  in  the 
gift  of  lords  and  ladies,  and  had  no  idea  of  the  multitude,  he 
fancied  himself  already  famous.  And,  since  one  of  his  strong- 
est feelings  was  his  jealousy  of  Maltravers,  he  was  delighted  at 
being  told  he  was  a  much  more  interesting  creature  than  that 
haughty  personage,  who  wore  his  neckcloth  like  other  people, 
and  had  not  even  those  indispensable  attributes  of  genius — black 
curls  and  a  sneer.  Fine  society,  which,  as  Madame  de  Stael 
well  says,  depraves  the  frivolous  mind  and  braces  the  strong  one, 
completed  the  ruin  of  all  that  was  manly  in  Cesarini's  intellect. 
He  soon  learned  to  limit  his  desire  of  effect  or  distinction  to 
gilded  saloons;  and  his  vanity  contented  itself  upon  the  scraps 
and  morsels  from  which  the  lion  heart  of  true  ambition  turns  in 
disdain.  But  this  was  not  all.  Cesarini  was  envious  of  the  greater 
affluence  of  Maltravers.  His  own  fortune  was  in  a  small  capi- 
tal of  eight  or  nine  thousand  pounds;  but,  thrown  in  the  midst 
of  the  wealthiest  society  in  Europe,  he  could  not  bear  to  sacri- 
fice a  single  claim  upon  its  esteem.  He  began  to  talk  of  the 
satiety  of  wealth,  and  young  ladies  listened  to  him  wath  remark- 
able interest  when  he  did  so — he  obtained  the  reputation  of 
riches — he  was  too  vain  not  to  be  charmed  with  it.  He  en- 
deavored to  maintain  the  claim  by  adopting  the  extravagant  ex- 
cesses of  the  day.  He  bought  horses — he  gave  away  jewels — he 
made  love  to  a  marchioness  of  forty-two,  who  was  very  kind  to 
him  and  very  fond  of  ecarti — he  gambled — he  was  iu  Ihe  high 
road  to  destruction. 


190  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


BOOK  VI. 

EiTTOtf  dv,  wf  6  ;f/9v<T6c  ek  vcko  rdSe 
HhrvTtlv  T£  Tepnvdv. — EuklP.  Ion.  line  641. 

Perchance  you  say  that  gold's  the  arch-exceller. 
And  to  be  rich  is  sweet  ? 

*  *      *     keIvo  6'  ovK  avaax£T6v 

^KEiv  660V  x^^^^-'-i'trra  Toig  Konioujiv.  — Ibid,  line  66g. 

*  *        *        'Tis  not  to  be  endured, 
To  yield  our  trodden  path  and  turn  aside, 
Giving  our  place  to  knaves. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  L'addresse  et  I'artifice  ont  passe  dans  mon  coeur, 
Qu'on  a  sous  cet  habit  et  d'esprit  et  de  ruse."  * — Regnard. 

It  was  a  fine  morning  in  July,  when  a  gentleman  who  had 
arrived  in  town  the  night  before — after  an  absence  from  Eng- 
land of  several  years — walked  slowly  and  musingly  up  that 
superb  thoroughfare  which  connects  the  Regent's  Park  with  St. 
James's. 

He  was  a  man  who,  with  great  powers  of  mind,  had  wasted 
his  youth  in  a  wandering  vagabond  sort  of  life,  but  who  had 
worn  away  the  love  of  pleasure,  and  began  to  awaken  to  a  sense 
of  ambition. 

"  It  is  astonishing  how  this  city  is  improved,"  said  he  to  him- 
self. "  Everything  gets  on  in  this  world  with  a  little  energy  and 
bustle — and  everybody  as  well  as  everything.  My  old  cronies, 
fellows  not  half  so  clever  as  I  am,  are  all  doing  well.  There's 
Tom  Stevens,  my  very  fag  at  Eton — snivelling  little  dog  he 
was  too ! — just  made  under-secretary  of  state.  Pearson,  whose 
longs  and  shorts  I  always  wrote,  is  now  head-master  to  the 
human  longs  and  shorts  of  a  public  school — editing  Greek  plays, 
and  booked  for  a  bishopric.  Collier,  I  see  by  the  papers,  is  leading 
his  circuit — and  Ernest  Maltravers  (but  he  had  some  talent) 
has  made  a  name  in  the  world.  Here  am  I,  worth  them  all 
put  together,  who  have  done  nothing  but  spend  half  my  little 
fortune  in  spite  of  all  my  economy.  Egad,  this  must  have  an 
end.  I  must  look  to  the  main  chance  ;  and  yet,  just  when  I 
want  his  help  the  most,  my  worthy  uncle  thinks  fit  to  marry 
again.     Humph — I'm  too  good  for  this  world." 

*  Subtlety  and  craft  have  taken  possession  of  my  heart,  but  under  this  habit  one  exhibits 
both  shrQw4n?$s  fUid  wit. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I91 

While  thus  musing,  the  soliloquist  came  in  direct  personal 
contact  with  a  tall  gentleman,  who  carried  his  head  very  high 
in  the  air,  and  did  not  appear  to  see  that  he  had  nearly  thrown 
our  abstracted  philosopher  off  his  legs. 

"  Zounds,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  latter. 

"  I  beg  your  par — "  began  the  other  meekly,  when  his  arm 
was  seized,  and  the  injured  man  exclaimed,  "Bless  me,  sir,  is  it 
indeed  you  whom  I  see  ? " 

"Ha!— Lumley?" 

"  The  same  ;  and  how  fares  it,  my  dear  uncle  ?  I  did  not  know 
you  were  in  London.  I  only  arrived  last  night.  How  well 
you  are  looking  !  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Heaven  be  praised,  I  am  pretty  well." 

"  And  happy  in  your  new  ties  ?  You  must  present  me  to 
Mrs.  Templeton." 

"  Ehem,"  said  Mr.  Templeton,  clearing  his  throat,  and  with 
a  sHght  but  embarrassed  smile,  "  I  never  thought  I  should 
marry  again." 

^^  L'  homtne  propose  et  Dieu  dispose"  observed  Lumley  Ferrers, 
for  it  was  he. 

"  Gently,  my  dear  nephew,"  replied  Mr.  Templeton,  gravely ; 
"  those  phrases  are  somewhat  sacrilegious ;  I  am  an  old-fashioned 
person,  you  know." 

"  Ten  thousand  apologies." 

"  One  apology  will  suffice ;  these  hyperboles  of  phrase  are 
almost  sinful." 

"Confounded  old  prig!"  thought  Ferrers;  but  he  bowed 
sanctimoniously. 

"  My  dear  uncle,  I  have  been  a  wild  fellow  in  my  day :  but 
with  years  comes  reflection  ;  and  under  your  guidance,  if  I  may 
hope  for  it,  I  trust  to  grow  a  wiser  and  a  better  man." 

"It  is  well,  Lumley,"  returned  the  uncle;  "and  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  returned  to  your  own  country.  Will  you  dine 
with  me  to-morrow  ?  I  am  living  near  Fulhara.  You  had 
better  bring  your  carpet-bag,  and  stay  with  me  some  days  ;  you 
will  be  heartily  welcome,  especiuUy  if  you  can  shift  without  a 
foreign  servant.    I  have  a  great  compassion  for  papists,  but — " 

"Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  do  not  fear,  I  am  not  rich  enough  to 
have  a  foreign  servant,  and  have  not  travelled  over  three  quar- 
ters of  the  globe  without  learning  that  it  is  possible  to  dispense 
with  a  valet," 

"As  to  being  rich  enough,"  observed  Mr.  Templeton,  with  a 
calculating  air,  "seven  hundred  and  ninety-five  pounds  ten 
shillings  a  year  will  allow  a  man  to  keep  two  servants,  if  he 


192  KKxNKhT    MALTkAVEKS. 

pleases ;  but  I  am  glad  to  find  you  economical,  at  all  events. 
We  meet  to-morrow,  then,  at  six  o'clock." 

'^  Au  revoii — I  mean,  God  bless  you." 

"Tiresome  old  gentleman  that,"  muttered  Ferrers,  "and  not 
cordial  as  formerly  ;  perhaps  his  wife  is  eficet/2fe,and  he  is  going 
to  do  me  the  injustice  of  having  another  heir.  I  must  look  to 
this  ;  for  without  riches  I  had  better  go  back  and  live  au  cin- 
quieme  at  Paris." 

With  this  conclusion  Lumley  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon 
arrived  inSeamore  Place.  In  a  few  moments  more  he  was  in 
the  library  well  stored  with  books,  and  decorated  with  marble 
busts  and  images  from  the  studios  of  Canova  and  Thorwaldsen, 

"  My  master,  sir,  will  be  down  immediately,"  said  the  servant 
who  admitted  him,  and  Ferrers  threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  and 
contemplated  the  apartment  with  an  air  half  envious  and  half 
cynical. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  "  My  dear  Ferrers  ! "  "  Well, 
mon  c/ier,  how  are  you ! "  were  the  salutations  hastily  ex- 
changed. 

After  the  first  sentences  of  inquiry,  gratulation,  and  welcome 
had  cleared  the  way  for  more  general  conversation, — "Well, 
Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  "so  here  we  are  together  again,  and 
after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years  !  both  older  certainly  ;  and  you, 
I  suppose,  wiser.  At  all  events,  people  think  you  so  ;  and  that's 
all  that's  important  in  the  question.  Why,  man,  you  are  look- 
ing as  young  as  ever,  only  a  little  paler  and  thinner  :  but  look 
at  me — I  am  not  werymuch  past  thirty,  and  I  am  almost  an  old 
man  ;  bald  at  the  temples,  crows'  feet,  too,  eh  !  Idleness  ages 
one  damnably." 

"  Pooh,  Lumley,  I  never  saw  you  look  better.  And  are  you 
really  come  to  settle  in  England  ?" 

"Yes,  if  I  can  afford  it.  But  at  my  age  and  after  having 
seen  so  much,  the  life  of  an  idle,  obscure  garfon  does  not 
content  me.  I  feel  that  the  world's  opinion,  which  I  used  to  de- 
spise, is  growing  necessary  to  me.  1  want  to  be  something. 
What  can  I  be  ?  Don't  look*  alarmed,  I  won't  rival  you.  I 
dare  say  literary  reputation  is  a  fine  thing,  but  I  desire  some 
distinction  more  substantial  and  worldly.  You  know  your 
own  country ;  give  me  a  map  of  the  roads  to  Power." 

"To  Power!     Oh,  nothing  but  law,  politics,  and  riches." 

"  For  law,  I  am  too  old  ;  politics,  perhaps,  might  suit  me ; 
but  riches,  my  dear  Ernest — ah,  how  I  long  for  a  good  account 
with  my  banker  !  " 

"  Well,  patience  and  hope.    Are  you  not  a  rich  uncle's  heir  ?" 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I93 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ferrers,  very  dolorously  ;  "  the  old  gentle- 
man has  married  again,  and  may  have  a  family." 

"  Married  ! — to  whom  ?  " 

"A  widow,  I  hear;  I  know  nothing  more,  except  that  she 
has  a  child  already.  So  you  see  she  has  got  into  a  cursed  way 
of  having  children.  And,  perhaps,  by  the  time  I'm  forty,  I  shall 
see  a  whole  covey  of  cherubs  flying  away  with  the  great  Tem- 
pleton  property ! " 

"  Ha,  ha ;  your  despair  sharpens  your  wit,  Lumley ;  but  why 
not  take  a  leaf  out  of  your  uncle's  book,  and  marry  yourself?" 

"  So  1  will  when  I  can  find  an  heiress.  If  that  is  what  you 
meant  to  say — it  is  a  more  sensible  suggestion  than  any  I  could 
have  supposed  to  come  from  a  man  who  writes  books,  especially 
poetry  ;  and  your  advice  is  not  to  be  despised.  For  rich  I  will  be  ; 
and  as  the  fathers  (I  don't  mean  of  the  Church,  but  in  Horace) 
told  the  rising  generation  the  first  thing  is  to  resolve  to  be  rich, 
it  is  only  the  second  thing  to  consider  how." 

"Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  you  will  be  my  guest." 

"  I'll  dine  with  you  to-day  ;  but  to-morrow  I  am  off  to  Fulham, 
to  be  introduced  to  my  aunt.  Can't  you  fancy  her? — gray  gros 
de  Naples  gown  :  gold  chain  with  an  eyeglass  ;  rather  fat ;  two 
pugs  and  a  parrot !  'Start  not,  this  is  fancy's  sketch  ! '  I  have 
not  yet  seen  the  respectable  relative  with  my  physical  optics. 
What  shall  we  have  for  dinner  !  Let  w^  choose,  you  were  always 
a  bad  caterer." 

As  Ferrers  thus  rattled  on,  Maltravers  felt  himself  growing 
younger :  old  times  and  old  adventures  crowded  fast  upon  him  ; 
and  the  two  friends  spent  a  most  agreeable  day  together.  It  was 
only  the  next  morning  that  Maltravers,  in  thinking  over  the 
various  conversations  that  had  passed  between  them,  was  forced 
reluctantly  to  acknowledge  that  the  inert  selfishness  of  Lumley 
Ferrers  seemed  now  to  have  hardened  into  a  resolute  and  syste- 
matic want  of  principle,  which  might,  perhaps,  make  him  a  dan- 
gerous and  designing  man,  if  urged  by  circumstances  into  action 


CHAPTER  IL 

"  Dauph.     Sir,  I  must  speak  to  you.     I  have  been  long  your  despised  kins- 
man. 
"  Morose.     O,  what  thou  wilt,  nephew." — Epicene. 

"Her  silence  is  dowry  eno' — exceedingly   soft  spoken;    thrifty  of  her 
speech,  that  spends  but  six  words  a  day." — Ibid. 

The  coach  dropped  Mr.  Ferrers  at  the  gate  of  a  villa  about 


194  ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS. 

three  miles  from  town.  The  lodge-keeper  charged  himself  with 
the  carpet-bag,  and  Ferrers  strolled,  with  his  hands  behind  him 
(it  was  his  favorite  mode  of  disposing  of  them),  through  the 
beautiful  and  elaborate  pleasure-grounds. 

"A  very  nice,  snug  little  box  (jointure-house,  I  suppose)  !  I 
would  not  grudge  tliat,  I'm  sure,  if  I  had  but  the  rest.  But  here, 
I  suspect,  comes  madam's  first  specimen  of  the  art  of  having  a 
family."  This  last  thought  was  extracted  from  Mr.  Ferrers's  con- 
templative brain  by  a  lovely  little  girl,  who  came  running  up  to 
him,  fearless  and  spoilt  as  she  was  ;  and,  after  indulging  in  a 
tolerable  stare,  exclaimed,  "Are  you  come  to  see  papa,  sir  .-'" 

"Papa  ! — the  deuce  !  " — thought  Lumley  ;  "and  who  is  papa, 
my  dear?" 

"  Why,  mamma's  husband.     He  is  not  my  papa  by  rights." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  love  ;  not  by  rights — I  comprehend." 

"  Eh  !  " 

'*  Yes,  I  am  going  to  your  papa  by  wrongs — Mr.  Templeton." 

"Oh,  this  way,  then." 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Mr.  Templeton,  my  little  angel." 

"To  be  sure  I  am.  You  have  not  seen  the  rocking-horse  he 
is  going  to  give  me." 

"Not  yet,  sweet  child  !     And  how  is  mamma?" 

"Oh,  poor,  dear  mamma,"  said  the  child,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice,  and  tears  in  her  eyes.     "Ah,  she  is  not  well ! " 

"In  the  family  way,  to  a  dead  certainty ! "  muttered  Ferrers, 
with  a  groan  ;  "but  here  is  my  uncle.  Horrid  name  !  Uncles 
were  always  wicked  fellows.  Richard  the  Third,  and  the  man 
who  did  something  or  other  to  the  babes  in  the  wood,  were  a 
joke  to  my  hard-hearted  old  relation,  who  has  robbed  me  with  a 
widow  !  The  lustful,  liquorish  old — My  dear  sir,  I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you ! " 

Mr.  Templeton,  who  was  a  man  very  cold  in  manners,  and 
alwayseither  looked  over  people's  heads  or  down  upon  theground, 
just  touched  his  nephew's  outstretched  hand,  and,  telling  him 
that  he  was  welcome,  observed  that  it  was  a  very  fine  afternoon. 

"Very,  indeed;  sweet  place  this;  you  see,  by  the  way,  that 
I  have  already  made  acquaintance  with  my  fair  cousin-in-law. 
She  is  very  pretty." 

"  I  really  think  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Templeton,  with  some  warmth, 
and  gazing  fondly  at  the  child,  who  was  now  throwing  butter- 
cups up  in  the  air,  and  trying  to  catcli  them. — Mr.  Ferrers  wished 
in  his  heart  that  they  had  been  brick-bats  ! 

"  Is  she  like  her  mother  ? "  asked  the  nephew, 

**  Like  whom,  sir  ? " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  I95 

"Her  mother — Mrs.  Templeton." 

**  No,  not  very  ;  there  is  an  air,  perhaps,  but  the  likeness  is 
not  remarkably  strong.  Would  you  not  like  to  go  to  your  room 
before  dinner?" 

"  Thank  you.     Can  I  not  first  be  presented  to  Mrs.  Tem — " 

"  She  is  at  her  devotions,  Mr.  Lumley,"  interrupted  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton, grimly. 

"  The  she-hypocrite  !  "  thought  Ferrers.  "  Oh,  I  am  delighted 
that,  your  pious  heart  has  found  so  congenial  a  helpmate  !  " 

*'  It  is  a  great  blessing,  and  I  am  grateful  for  it.  This  is  the 
way  to  the  house." 

Lumley,  now  formally  installed  in  a  grave  bedroom,  with  dimity 
curtains,  and  dark-brown  paper  with  light-brown  stars  on  it, 
threw  himself  into  a  large  chair,  and  yawned  and  stretched  with 
as  much  fervor  as  if  he  could  have  yawned  and  stretched  him- 
self into  his  uncle's  property.  He  then  slowly  exchanged  his 
morning  dress  for  a  quiet  suit  of  black,  and  thanked  his  stars 
that,  amidst  all  his  sins,  he  had  never  been  a  dandy,  and  had 
never  rejoiced  in  a  fine  waistcoat — a  criminal  possession  that  he 
well  knew  would  have  entirely  hardened  his  uncle's  conscience 
against  him.  He  tarried  in  his  room  till  the  second  bell  sum- 
moned him  to  descend ;  and  then,  entering  the  drawing-room, 
which  had  a  cold  look  even  in  July,  found  his  uncle  standing 
by  the  mantelpiece,  and  a  young,  slight,  handsome  woman,  half- 
buried  in  a  huge  but  not  comfortsible /au^emV. 

"Your  aunt,  Mrs.  Templeton  ;  madam,  my  nephew,  Mr.  Lum- 
ley Ferrers,"  said  Templeton,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  "  John, 
— dinner!" 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  late  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Templeton,  gently,  for  he  had  always  liked  his 
nephew,  and  began  now  to  thaw  towards  him  a  little  on  seeing 
that  Lumley  put  a  good  face  upon  the  new  state  of  affairs, — 
"  No,  my  dear  boy — no ;  but  I  think  order  and  punctuality 
cardinal  virtues  in  a  well-regulated  family." 

"  Dinner,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  opening  the  folding-doors  at 
the  end  of  the  room. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Lumley,  offering  his  arm  to  the  aunt, 
"  What  a  lovely  place  this  is  !  " 

Mrs.  Templeton  said  something  in  reply,  but  what  it  was  Fer- 
rers could  not  discover,  so  low  and  choked  was  the  voice. 

"Odd,"  thought  he  :  "for  a  widow?  but  that's  the  way  those 
husband-buriers  take  us  in  !  " 

Plain  as  was  the  general  furniture  of  the  apartment,  the  nat- 
ural ostentation  of  Mr.  Templeton  broke  out  in  the  massive 


196  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

value  of  the  plate,  and  the  number  of  the  attendants.  He  was 
a  rich  man,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  riches  :  he  knew  it  was  re- 
spectable to  be  rich,  and  he  thought  it  was  moral  to  be  respecta- 
ble. As  for  the  dinner,  Lumley  knew  enough  of  his  uncle's 
tastes  to  be  prepared  for  viands  and  wines  that  even  he  (fastidi- 
ous gourmand  as  he  was)  did  not  despise. 

But  between  the  intervals  of  eating,  Mr.  Ferrers  endeavored 
to  draw  his  aunt  into  conversation,  but  he  found  all  his  ingenuity- 
fail  him.  There  was,  in  the  features  of  Mrs.  Templeton,  an 
expression  of  deep  but  calm  melancholy  that  would  have  sad- 
dened most  persons  to  look  upon,  especially  in  one  so  young  and 
lovely.  It  was  evidently  something  beyond  shyness  or  reserve 
that  made  her  so  silent  and  subdued,  and  even  in  her  silence 
there  was  so  much  natural  sweetness,that  Ferrers  could  not  ascribe 
her  manner  to  haughtiness  or  the  desire  to  repel.  He  was  rathei 
puzzled  ;  "  for  though,"  thought  he,  sensibly  enough,  "  my  uncle 
is  not  a  youth,  he  is  a  very  rich  fellow ;  and  how  any  widow, 
who  is  married  again  to  a  rich  old  fellow,  can  be  melancholy, 
passes  my  understanding  !  " 

Templeton,  as  if  to  draw  attention  from  his  wife's  taciturnity, 
talked  more  than  usual.  He  entered  largely  into  politics,  and 
r-egretted  that  in  times  so  critical  he  was  not  in  Parliament. 

"  Did  I  possess  your  youth  and  your  health,  Lumley,  I  would 
not  neglect  my  country — Popery  is  abroad." 

"  I  myself  should  like  very  much  to  be  in  Parliament,"  said 
Lumley,  boldly. 

"I  dare  say  you  would,"  returned  the  uncle,  dryly.  "Par- 
liament is  very  expensive — only  fit  for  those  who  have  a  large 
ni.ake  in  the  country.     Champagne  to  Mr.  Ferrers." 

Lumley  bit  his  lip,  and  spoke  little  during  the  rest  of  the 
dinner.  Mr.  Templeton,  however,  waxed  gracious  by  the  time 
the  dessert  was  on  the  table  ;  and  began  cutting  up  a  pineapple, 
with  many  assurances  to  Lumley  that  gardens  were  nothing 
without  pineries.  "  Whenever  you  settle  in  the  country,  nephew, 
be  sure  you  have  a  pinery." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Lumley,  almost  bitterly, "  and  a  pack  of  hounds, 
and  a  French  cook ;  they  will  all  suit  my  fortune  very  well." 

"  You  are  more  thoughtful  on  pecuniary  matters  than  you 
used  to  be,"  said  the  uncle. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Ferrers,  solemnly,  **  in  a  very  short  time  I  shall 
be  what  is  called  a  middle-aged  man." 

**  Humph  ! "  said  the  host. 

There  was  another  silence.  Lumley  was  a  man,  as  we  have 
■said  or  implied  before,  of  great  knowledge  of  human  nature,  at 


ERNEST   MAMRAVERS.  107 

least  the  ordinary  sort  of  it,  and  he  now  revolved  in  his  mind 
the  various  courses  it  might  be  wise  to  pursue  towards  his  rich 
relation.  He  saw  that,  in  delicate  fencing,  his  uncle  had  over 
him  the  same  advantage  that  a  tall  man  has  over  a  short  one 
with  the  physical  sword-play, — by  holding  his  weapon  in  a 
proper  position,  he  kept  the  other  at  arm's  length.  There  was 
a  grand  reserve  and  dignity  about  the  man  who  had  something 
to  give  away,  of  which  Ferrers,  however  actively  he  might 
shift  his  ground  and  flourish  his  rapier,  could  not  break  the 
defence.  He  determined,  therefore,  upon  a  new  game,  for 
which  his  frankness  of  manner  admirably  adapted  him.  Just 
as  he  formed  this  resolution,  Mrs.  Templeton  rose,  and  with  a 
gentle  bow,  and  soft,  though  languid  smile,  glided  from  the 
room.  The  two  gentlemen  resettled  themselves,  and  Temple- 
ton  pushed  the  bottle  to  Ferrers. 

"  Help  yourself,  Lumley  ;  your  travels  seem  to  have  deprived 
you  of  your  high  spirits — you  are  pensive," 

"Sir,"  said  Ferrers,  abruptly,  "I  wish  to  consult  you." 

*'  Oh,  young  man  !  you  have  been  guilty  of  some  excess — 
you  have  gambled — you  have — " 

"  I  have  done  nothing,  sir,  that  should  make  me  less  worthy 
your  esteem.  I  repeat,  I  wish  to  consult  you  ;  I  have  outlived 
the  hot  days  of  my  youth — I  am  now  alive  to  the  claims  of  the 
world.  I  have  talents,  I  believe ;  and  I  have  application, 
I  know.  I  wish  to  fill  a  position  in  the  world  that  may  redeem 
my  past  indolence  and  do  credit  to  my  family.  Sir,  I  set  your 
example  before  me,  and  I  now  ask  your  counsel,  with  the  deter- 
mination to  follow  it." 

Templeton  was  startled  ;  he  half  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand, 
and  gazed  searchingly  upon  the  high  forehead  and  bold  eyes  of 
his  nephew.    "  I  believe  you  are  sincere,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  You  may  well  believe  so,  sir." 

"Well,  I  will  think  of  this.  I  like  an  honorable  ambition — 
not  too  extravagant  a  one — that  is  sinful  ;  but  a  respectable 
station  in  the  world  is  a  proper  object  of  desire,  and  wealth  is 
a  blessing  ;  because,"  added  the  rich  man,  taking  another  slice 
of  the  pineapple, — "it  enables  us  to  be  of  use  to  our  fellow- 
creatures  ! " 

"  Sir,  then,"  said  Ferrers,  with  daring  animation — "  then  I 
avow  that  my  ambition  is  precisely  of  the  kind  you  speak  of. 
I  am  obscure,  I  desire  to  be  reputably  known  ;  my  fortune  is 
mediocre,  I  desire  it  to  be  great.  I  ask  you  for  nothing — 1 
know  your  generous  heart ;  but  I  wish  independently  to  work 
out  my  own  career  !  " 


198  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"Lumley,"  said  Terapleton,  "I  never  esteemed  you  so  much 
as  I  do  now.  Listen  to  me — I  will  confide  in  you  ;  1  think  the 
government  are  under  obligations  to  me." 

"I  know  it,"  exclaimed  Ferrers,  whose  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
thought  of  a  sinecure — for  sinecures  then  existed  ! 

"And,"  pursued  the  uncle,  "I  intend  to  ask  them  a  favor  in 
return." 

"  Oh,  sir !  " 

"Yes,  I  think — mark  me — with  management  and  address,  I 
may — " 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir  ! " 

"  Obtain  a  barony  for  myself  and  heirs :  I  trust  I  shall  soon 
have  a  family  !  " 

Had  somebody  given  Lumley  Ferrers  a  hearty  cuff  on  the 
ear,  he  would  have  thought  less  of  it  than  of  this  wind-up  of  his 
uncle's  ambitious  projects.  His  jaws  fell,  his  eyes  grew  an  inch 
larger,  and  he  remained  perfectly  speechless. 

"Aye,"  pursued  Mr.  Templeton,"  I  have  long  dreamed  of 
this  ;  my  character  is  spotless,  my  fortune  great.  I  have  ever 
exerted  my  parliamentary  influence  in  favor  of  ministers,  and, 
in  this  commercial  country,  no  man  has  higher  claims  than 
Richard  Templeton  to  the  honors  of  a  virtuous,  loyal,  and  re- 
ligious state.  Yes,  my  boy,  I  like  your  ambition — you  see  I 
have  some  of  it  myself  ;  and  since  you  are  sincere  in  your  wish 
to  tread  in  my  footsteps,  I  think  I  can  obtain  you  a  junior 
partnership  in  a  highly  respectable  establishment.  Let  me  see  ; 
your  capital  now  is — " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Lumley,  coloring  with  indig- 
nation despite  himself;  "I  honor  commerce  much,  but  my 
paternal  relations  are  not  such  as  would  allow  me  to  enter  into 
trade.  And  permit  me  to  add,"  continued  he,  seizing  witix 
instant  adroitness  the  new  weakness  presented  to  him — "  permit 
me  to  add,  that  those  relations  who  have  been  ever  kind  to  me 
would,  properly  managed,  be  highly  efficient  in  promoting  your 
own  views  of  advancement ;  for  your  sake  I  would  not  break 
with  them.  Lord  Saxingham  is  still  a  minister — nay,  he  is  in 
the  cabinet." 

"  Hem — Lumley — hem  ! "  said  Templeton,  thoughtfully,  "  we 
will  consider — we  will  consider.     Any  more  wine  ? " 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"Then  I'll  just  take  my  evening  stroll,  and  think  over  mat- 
ters. You  can  rejoin  Mrs.  Templeton.  And  I  say,  Lumley — 
I  read  prayers  at  nine  o'clock. — Never  forget  your  Maker,  and 
He  will  not  forget  you.     The  barony  will  be  an  excellent  thing 


ERNEST    MaLTRAVERS.  ^      I99 

—eh  ? — an  English  peerage  !  very  different  from  your  beggarly 
countshi])S  abroad  !  " 

So  saying,  Mr.  Templeton  rang  for  his  hat  and  cane,  and 
stepped  into  the  lawn  from  the  window  of  the  dining-room. 

"  The  world's  mine  oyster,  which  I  with  svvord  will  open," 
muttered  Ferrers  ;  "  I  would  mould  this  selfish  old  man  to  my 
purpose  ;  for,  since  I  have  neither  genius  to  write  nor  eloquence 
to  declaim,  I  will  at  least  see  whether  I  have  not  cunning  tc 
plot,  and  courage  to  act.  Conduct — conduct — conduct — therf 
lies  my  talent ;  and  what  is  conduct  but  a  steady  walk  from  i 
design  to  its  execution  !  " 

With  these  thoughts  Ferrers  sought  J^lrs.  Templeton.  He 
opened  the  folding-doors  very  gently,  for  all  his  habitual  move- 
ments were  quick  and  noioeless,  and  perceived  that  Mrs. 
Templeton  sat  by  the  window,  and  that  she  seemed  engrossed 
with  a  book  which  lay  open  on  a  little  work-table  before  her. 

*'  Fordyce's  /\dvice  to  Young  Married  Women,  I  suppose. 
Sly  jade  !     However,  I  must  not  have  her  against  me." 

He  approached  ;  still  Mrs.  Templeton  did  not  note  him  ; 
nor  was  it  till  he  stood  facing  her  that  he  himself  observed  that 
her  tears  were  falling  fast  over  the  page. 

He  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and,  turning  towards  the  window, 
affected  to  cough,  and  then  said,  without  looking  at  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton, "  I  fear  I  have  disturbed  you." 

"  No,"  answered  the  same  low,  stifled  voice  that  had  before 
replied  to  Lumley's  vain  attempts  to  provoke  conversation,  "it 
was  a  melancholy  employment,  and  perhaps  it  is  not  right  to 
indulge  in  it." 

"  May  I  inquire  what  author  so  affected  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  but  a  volume  of  poems,  and  I  am  no  judge  of  poetry  ; 
but  it  contains  thoughts  which — which — "  Mrs.  Templeton 
paused  abruptly,  and  Lumley  quietly  took  up  the  book. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  turning  to  the  title-page — "  my  friend  ought 
to  be  much  flattered." 

"  Your  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  this,  I  see,  is  by  Ernest  Maltravers,  a  very  intimate 
ally  of  mine." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  cried  Mrs.  Templeton,  almost 
with  animation — "  I  read  but  little  ;  it  was  by  chance  that  I 
met  with  one  of  his  books,  and  they  are  as  if  I  heard  a  dear 
friend  speaking  to  me.     Ah  !  I  should  like  to  see  him  !" 

"  I'm  sure,  madam,"  said  the  voice  of  a  third  person,  in  an 
austere  and  rebuking  accent,  "I  do  not  see  what  good  \  would 
do  your  immortal  soul  to  see  a  man  who  writes  idle   verses. 


200  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

which  appear  to  me,  indeed,  highly  immoral.  I  just  looked 
into  that  volume  this  morning,  and  found  nothing  but  trash — 
love-sonnets  and  such  stuff." 

Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  reply,  and  Lumley,  in  order  to 
change  the  conversation,  which  seemed  a  little  too  matrimonial 
for  his  taste,  said,  rather  awkwardly,  "  You  are  returned  very 
soon,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  like  walking  in  the  rain  !  " 

"  Bless  me,  it  rains,  so  it  does — I  had  not  observed — " 

"  Are  you  wet,  sir  ?  had  you  not  better — "  began  the  wife, 
timidly. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I'm  not  wet,  I  thank  you.  By-the-by,  nephew, 
this  new  author  is  a  friend  of  yours.  I  wonder  a  man  of  his 
family  should  condescend  to  turn  author.  He  can  come  to  no 
good.  I  hope  you  will  drop  his  acquaintance — authors  are  very 
unprofitable  associates,  I'm  sure.  I  trust  I  shall  see  no  more 
of  Mr.  Maltravers's  books  in  my  house." 

"  Nevertheless,  he  is  well  thought  of,  sir,  and  makes  no  mean 
figure  in  the  world,"  said  Lumley,  stoutly  ;  for  he  was  by  no 
means  disposed  to  give  up  a  friend  who  might  be  as  useful  to 
him  as  Mr.  Templeton  himself. 

"  Figure,  or  no  figure — I  have  not  had  many  dealings  with 
authors  in  my  day  ;  and  when  I  had,  I  always  repented  it.  Not 
sound,  sir,  not  sound — all  cracked  somewhere.  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton, have  the  kindness  to  get  the  Prayer-book — my  hassock 
must  be  fresh  stuffed,  it  gives  me  quite  a  pain  in  my  knee. 
Lumley,  will  you  ring  the  bell  ?  Your  aunt  is  very  melancholy. 
True  religion  is  not  gloomy  ;  we  will  read  a  sermon  on  Cheer- 
fulness." 

"  So,  so,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers  to  himself,  as  he  undressed  that 
night — "I  see  that  my  uncle  is  a  little  displeased  with  my  aunt's 
pensive  face — a  little  jealous  of  her  thinking  of  anything  but 
himself  :  tarit  mieux.  I  must  work  upon  this  discovery  ;  it  will 
not  do  for  them  to  live  too  happily  with  each  other.  And  what 
with  that  lever,  and  what  with  his  ambitious  projects,  I  think  I 
see  a  way  to  push  the  good  things  of  this  world  a  few  inches 
nearer  to  Lumley  Ferrers." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  20I 


CHAPTER  III. 

•'  The  pride  too  of  her  step,  as  light 

Along  the  unconscious  earth  she  went, 
Seemed  that  of  one  born  with  a  right 
To  walk  some  heavenlier  elements." — Loves  of  the  Angels. 

*  *  *  "Can  it  be 

That  these  fine  impulses,  these  lofty  thoughts 
Burning  with  their  own  beauty,  are  but  given 
To  make  me  the  low  slave  of  vanity  ?  " — Etinna. 

*  *  *  "Is  she  not  too  fair 

Even  to  think  of  maiden's  sweetest  care  ? 
The  mouth  and  brow  are  contrasts." — Ibid. 

It  was  two  or  three  evenings  after  the  date  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, and  there  was  what  the  newspapers  call  "a  select  party" 
in  one  of  the  noblest  mansions  in  London.  A  young  lady,  on 
whon  all  eyes  were  bent,  and  wliose  beauty  might  have  served 
the  painter  for  amodelof  a  Semiramis  or  Zenobia,  more  majes- 
tic than  became  her  years,  and  so  classically  faultless  as  to  have 
something  cold  and  statue-like  in  its  haughty  lineaments,  was 
moving  through  the  crowd  that  murmured  applauses  as  she 
passed.  This  lady  was  Florence  Lascelles,  the  daughter  of 
Lumley's  great  relation,  the  Earl  of  Saxingham,  and  supposed 
to  be  the  richest  heiress  in  England.  Lord  Saxingham  himself 
drew  aside  his  daughter  as  she  swept  along. 

"  Florence,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper, "  the  Duke  of is  greatly 

struck  with  you — be  civil  to  him — I  am  about  to  present  him." 

So  saying,  the  Earl  turned  to  a  small,  dark,  stiff-looking  man, 
of  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  at  his  left,  and  introduced 

the  Duke  of to  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.     The  Duke  was 

unmarried  ;  it  was  an  introduction  between  the  greatest  match 
and  the  wealthiest  heiress  in  the  peerage. 

"  Lady  Florence,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  "  is  as  fond  of  horses 
as  yourself,  Duke,  though  not  quite  so  good  a  judge." 

"  I  confess  I  do  like  horses,"  said  the  Duke,  with  an  ingenu- 
ous air. 

Lord  Saxingham  moved  away. 

Lady  Florence  stood  mute — one  glance  of  bright  contempt 
shot  from  her  large  eyes  ;  her  lip  slightly  curled,  and  she  then 
half  turned  aside,  and  seemed  to  forget  that  her  new  acquaint- 
ance was  in  existence. 

His  grace,  like  most  great  personages,  was  not  apt  to  take 
offence  ;  nor  could  he,  indeed,  ever  suppose  that  any  slight 


202  EKNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

towards  the  Duke  of could  be  intended  ;  still  he  thought 

it  would  be  proper  in  Lady  Florence  to  begin  the  conversation  ; 
for  he  himself,  though  not  shy,  was  habitually  silent,  and  ac- 
customed to  be  saved  the  fatigue  of  defraying  the  small  charges 
of  society.  After  a  pause,  seeing,  however,  that  Lady  Florence 
remained  speechless,  he  began  : 

"  You  ride  sometimes  in  the  Park,  Lady  Florence  ? " 

"  Very  seldom." 

"It  is,  indeed,  too  warm  for  riding  at  present" 

'*I  did  not  say  so." 

"Hem— I  thought  you  did." 

Another  pause. 

"  Did  you  speak,  Lady  Florence  ?" 

"No." 

"  Oh  !   I  beg  pardon — Lord  Saxingham  is  looking  very  well." 

**I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"Your  picture  in  the  exhibition  scarcely  does  you  justice, 
Lady  Florence  ;  yet  Lawrence  is  usually  happy." 

"You  are  very  flattering,"  said  Lady  Florence,  with  a  lively 
and  perceptible  impatience  in  her  tone  and  manner.  The  young 
beauty  was  thoroughly  spoilt — and  now  all  the  scorn  of  a  scorn- 
ful nature  was  drawn  forth,  by  observing  the  envious  eyes  of 

the  crowd  were  bent  upon  one  whom  the  Duke  of was 

actually  talking  to.  Brilliant  as  were  her  own  powers  of  con- 
versation, she  would  not  deign  to  exert  them — she  was  an  aris- 
tocrat of  intellect  rather  than  birth,  and  she  took  it  into  her 
head  that  the  Duke  was  an  idiot.  She  was  very  much  mistaken. 
If  she  had  but  broken  up  the  ice,  she  would  have  found  that 
the  water  below  was  not  shallow.  The  Duke,  in  fact,  like  many 
other  Englishmen,  though  he  did  not  like  the  trouble  of  show- 
ing forth,  and  had  an  ungainly  manner,  was  a  man  who  had 
read  a  great  deal,  possessed  a  sound  head  and  an  honorable 
mind,  though  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  love  anybody,  to 
care  much  for  anything,  and  was  at  once  perfectly  sated  and 
yet  perfectly  contented  ;  for  apathy  is  the  combination  of  satiety 
and  content. 

Still  Florence  judged  of  him  as  lively  persons  are  apt  to 
judge  of  the  sedate;  besides  she  wanted  to  proclaim  to  him  and 
everybody  else  how  little  she  cared  for  dukes  and  great 
matches  ;  she  therefore,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head, 
turned  away,  and  extended  her  hand  to  a  dark  young  man, 
who  was  gazing  on  her  with  that  respectful  but  unmistakable 
admiration  which  proud  women  are  never  proud  enough  to 
despise. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  203 

"Ah,  signer,"  said  she,  in  Italian,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you; 
it  is  a  relitf,  indeed,  to  find  genius  in  a  crowd  of  nothings." 

So  saying,  the  heiress  seated  herself  on  one  of  those  con- 
venient couches  which  hold  but  two,  and  beckoned  the  Italian  to 
her  side.  Oh,  how  the  vain  heart  of  Castruccio  Cesarini  beat! 
what  visions  of  love,  rank,  wealth,  already  flitted  before  him  ! 

"  I  almost  fancy,"  said  Castruccio,  **  that  the  old  days  of 
romance  are  returned,  when  a  queen  could  turn  from  princes 
and  warriors  to  listen  to  a  troubadour." 

"Troubadours  are  now  more  rare  than  warriors  and  princes," 
said  Florence,  with  gay  animation,  which  contrasted  strongly 

with  the  coldness  she  had  manifested  to  the  Duke  of ,"  and 

therefore  it  would  not  now  be  a  very  great  merit  in  a  queen  to 
fly  from  dullness  and  insipidity  to  poetry  and  wit." 

"  Ah,  say  not  wit,"  said  Cesarini;  "  wit  is  incompatible  with 
the  grave  character  of  deep  feelings;  incompatible  with  enthu- 
siasm, with  worship;  incompatible  with  the  thoughts  that  wait 
upon  Lady  Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  colored  and  slightly  frowned;  but  the  immense  dis- 
tinction between  her  position  and  that  of  the  young  foreigner, 
with  her  own  inexperience,  both  of  real  life  and  the  presump- 
tion of  vain  hearts,  made  her  presently  forget  the  flattery  that 
would  have  offended  her  in  another.  She  turned  the  conversa- 
tion,  however,  into  general  channels,  and  talked  of  Italian 
poetry  with  a  warmth  and  eloquence  worthy  of  the  theme.  Whik 
they  thus  conversed,  a  new  guest  had  arrived,  who,  from  thf  spot 
where  he  stood,  engaged  with  Lord  Saxingham,  fixed  a  steady 
and  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  the  pair. 

"  Lady  Florence  has  indeed  improved,"  said  this  new  guest, 
"  I  could  not  have  conceived  that  England  boasted  any  one- 
half  so  beautiful." 

"She  certainly  is  handsome,  my  dearLumley, — the  Lascellfs 
cast  of  countenance,"  replied  Lord  Saxingham — "  and  so  gifted! 
She  is  positively  learned — quite  a  basbleu.  I  tremble  to  think 
of  the  crowd  of  poets  and  painters  who  will  make  a  fortune  out 
of  her  enthusiasm.  JSnire  nous,  Lumley,  I  could  wish  her  mar- 
ried to  a  man  of  sober  sense,  like  the  Duke  of ;  for  sobe^ 

sense  is  exactly  what  she  wants.  Doobseive,  she  has  been  just 
half  an  hour  flirting  with  that  odd-looking  adventurer,  a  Signor 
Cesarini,  merely  because  he  writes  sonnets  and  wears  a  dress 
like  a  stage-player  !  " 

"  It  is  the  weakness  of  the  sex,  my  dear  lord,"  said  Lumley; 
*'  they  like  to  patronize,  and  they  dote  upon  all  oddities,  from 
(phina  monsters  to  cracked  poets.     But   I  fancy,  by  a  restless 


204  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

glance  cast  every  now  and  then  around  the  room,  that  my  beau. 
liful  cousin  has  in  her  something  of  the  coquette." 

"  There,  you  are  quite  right,  Luuiley,"  returned  Lord  Sax- 
ingham,  laughing;  "  but  I  will  not  quarrel  with  her  for  breaking 
hearts  and  refusing  hands,  if  she  do  but  grow  steady  at  last, 
and  settle  into  the  Duchess  of ." 

" Duchess  of !  "repeated  Lumley,  absently;  "  well,  I  will 

go  and  present  myself.     I  see  she  is  growing  tired  of  the  signor. 
Iwill  sound  her  as  to  the  ducal  impressions,  my  dear  lord." 

"Do,  /dare  not,"  replied  the  father;  "she  is  an  excellent 
girl,  but  heiresses  are  always  contradictory.  It  was  very  foolish 
to  deprive  me  of  all  control  over  her  fortune.  Come  and  see 
me  again  soon,  Lumley.     I  suppose  you  are  going  abroad  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shall  settle  in  England;  but  of  my  prospects  and  plans 
more  hereafter." 

With  this,  Lumley  quietly  glided  away  to  Florence.  There 
was  something  in  Ferrers  that  was  remarkable  from  its  very 
simplicity.  His  clear,  sharp  features,  with  the  short  hair  and 
high  brow — the  absolute  plainness  of  all  his  dress,  and  the  noise- 
less, easy,  self-collected  calm  of  all  his  motions,  made  a  strong 
contrast  to  the  showy  Italian,  by  whose  side  he  now  stood. 
Florence  looked  up  at  him  with  some  little  surprise  at  his  in- 
trusion. 

"  Ah,  you  don't  recollect  me ! "  said  Lumley,  with  his  pleasant 
laugh.  "  Faithless  Imogen,  after  all  your  vows  of  constancy  ! 
Behold  your  Alonzo  ! 

'  The  worms  they  crept  in  and  the  worms  they  crept  out. 

Don't  you  remember  how  you  trembled  when  I  told  you  that 
true  story,  as  we 

'  Conversed  as  we  sate  on  the  green  ? ' " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Florence,  "it  is  indeed  you,  my  dear  cousin — 
my  dear  Lumley  !     What  an  age  since  we  parted  !  " 

"Don't  talk  of  age — it  is  an  ugly  word  to  a  man  of  my  years. 
Pardon,  signor,  if  I  disturb  you." 

And  here  Lumley,  with  a  low  bow,  slid  coolly  into  the  place 
which  Cesarini,  who  had  shyly  risen,  left  vacant  for  him.  Cas- 
truccio  looked  disconcerted;  but  Florence  had  forgotten  him  in 
her  delight  at  seeing  Lumley,  and  Cesarini  moved  discontentedly 
away,  and  seated  himself  at  a  distance. 

"And  I  come  back,"  continued  Lumley,  *'  to  find  you  a  con- 
firmed beauty  and  a  professional  coquette. — Don't  blush  ! " 

"  Do  they,  indeed,  call  me  a  coquette  ? " 

"  Qhf  yes, — iox  pnc?  th?  world  is  just." 


E«MESt    JtALtRAVEkS.  i6^ 

"  Perhaps  I  deserve  the  reproach.  Oh,  Lumley,  how  I  despise 
all  that  I  see  and  hear  !  " 

"  What,  even  the  Duke  of ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  fear  even  the  Duke  of is  no  exception  !  " 

"Your  father  will  go  mad  if  he  hear  you." 

"  My  father! — my  poor  father! — yes,  he  thinks  the  utmost 
that  I,  Florence  Lascelles,  am  made  for,  is  to  wear  a  ducal 
coronet,  and  give  the  best  balls  in  London." 

"And  pray  what  was  Florence  Lascelles  made  for?" 

"Ah!  I  cannot  answer  the  question.  I  fear  for  Discon- 
tent and  Disdain." 

"  You  are  an  enigma — but  I  will  take  pains  and  not  rest  till  I 
solve  you." 

"  I  defy  you." 

"Thanks — better  defy  than  despise." 

"Oh,  you  must  be  strangely  altered,  if  I  can  despise  ^^»." 

"  Indeed,  what  do  you  remember  of  me  ?" 

"  That  you  were  frank,  bold,  and  therefore,  I  suppose,  true  ! 
— that  you  shocked  my  aunts  and  my  father  by  your  contempt 
for  the  vulgar  hypocrisies  of  our  conventional  life.  Oh,  no  I 
I  cannot  despise  you." 

Lumley  raised  his  eyes  to  those  of  Florence — he  gazed  on  her 
long  and  earnestly — ambitious  hopes  rose  high  within  him. 

"  My  fair  cousin,"  said  he,  in  an  altered  and  serious  tone,  "  I 
see  something  in  your  spirit  kindred  to  mine  ;  and  I  am  glad  that 
yours  is  one  of  the  earliest  voices  which  confirm  my  new  re- 
solves on  my  return  to  busy  England  I  " 

"And  those  resolves?" 

"  Are  an  Englishman's — energetic  and  ambitious." 

"  Alas,  ambition  !  How  many  false  portraits  are  there  of  the 
great  original." 

Lumley  thought  he  had  found  a  clue  to  the  heart  of  his 
cousin,  and  he  began  to  expatiate,  with  unusual  eloquence,  on 
the  nobleness  of  that  daring  sin  which  "  lost  angels  heaven." 
Florence  listened  to  him  with  attention,  but  not  with  sym- 
pathy. Lumley  was  deceived.  His  was  not  an  ambition  that 
could  attract  the  fastidious  but  high-souled  Idealist.  The  sel- 
fishness of  his  nature  broke  out  in  all  the  sentiments  that  he 
fancied  would  seem  to  her  most  elevated.  Place — Power — ■ 
titles — all  these  objects  were  low  and  vulgar  to  one  who  saw 
them  daily  at  her  feet. 

At  a  distance,  the  Duke  of continued  from  time  to  time 

to  direct  his  cold  gaze  at  Florence.  He  did  not  like  her  the 
less  for  not  seeming  to  court  him.     He  had  something  generous 


2o6  ERNEST    MaLtRAVERS. 

within  him,  and  could  understand  her.  He  went  away  at  last, 
and  thought  seriously  of  Florence  as  a  wife.  Not  a  wife  for 
companionship,  for  friendship,  for  love ;  but  a  wife  who  could 
take  the  trouble  of  rank  off  his  hands — do  him  honor,  and  raise 
him  an  heir,  whom  he  might  flatter  himself  would  be  his  own. 
From  his  corner  also,  with  dreams  yet  more  vain  and  daring, 
Castruccio  Cesarini  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  queen-like  brow  of 
the  great  heiress.  Oh,  yes,  she  had  a  soul — she  could  disdain 
rank  and  revere  genius!  What  a  triumph  over  De  Montaigne — ■ 
Maltravers — all  the  w^orld,  if  he,  the  neglected  poet,  could  win 
the  hand  for  which  the  magnates  of  the  earth  siglied  in  vain! 
Pure  and  lofty  as  he  thought  himself,  it  was  her  birih  and  her 
wealth  which  Cesarini  adored  in  Florence.  And  Lumley, 
nearer  perhaps  to  the  prize  than  either — yet  still  far  oil — went 
on  conversing,  with  eloquent  lips  and  sparkling  eyes,  while  his 
cold  heart  was  planning  every  word,  dictating  every  glance, 
and  laying  out  (for  the  most  worldly  are  often  the  most  vision- 
ary) the  chart  for  a  royal  road  to  fortune.  And  Florence  Las- 
celles,  when  the  crowd  had  dispersed  and  she  sought  her 
chamber,  forgot  all  three  ;  and  with  that  morbid  romance  often 
peculiar  to  those  for  whom  Fate  smiles  the  most,  mused  over 
the  ideal  image  of  the  one  she  could  love — "  in  maiden  medita- 
tion not  fancy  free ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  In  mea  vesanas  habui  dispendia  vires, 
Et  valui  pcenas  fortis  in  ipse  meas."  * — OviD. 

"  Then  might  my  breast  be  read  within, 
A  thousand  volumes  would  be  written  there." — Earl  OF  Stirling. 

Ernest  Maltravers  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputation;  the 
work  which  he  had  deemed  the  crisis  that  was  to  make  or  mar 
him  was  the  most  brilliantly  successful  of  all  he  had  yet  com- 
mitted to  the  public.  Certainly,  chance  did  as  much  for  it  as 
merit,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  works  that  become  instanta^ 
neously  popular.  We  may  hammer  away  at  the  casket  with  strong 
arm  and  good  purpose,  and  all  in  vain  ;  when  some  morning  a 
careless  stroke  hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head,  and  we  secure  a 
fortune. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  in  the  prime  of  youth — rich,  courted, 
respected,  run  after — that  Ernest  Maltravers  fell  seriously  ill. 

*  I  had  the  strength  of  a  madman  to  my  own  cost,  and  employed  that  strength  in  my  own 
punishment. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  ioj 

It  was  no  active  or  visible  disease,  but  a  general  irritability  of 
the  nerves,  and  a  languid  sinking  of  the  whole  frame.  His  la- 
bors began,  perhaps,  to  tell  against  him.  In  earlier  life  he  had 
been  as  active  as  a  hunter  of  the  chamois,  and  the  hardy  exer- 
cise of  his  frame  counteracted  the  effects  of  a  restless  and  hard- 
ened mind.  The  change  from  an  athletic  to  a  sedentary  habit  of 
life — the  wear  and  tear  of  the  brain — the  absorbing  passion  for 
knowledge  which  day  and  night  kept  all  his  faculties  in  a  stretch, 
made  strange  havoc  in  a  constitution  naturally  strong.  The  poor 
author  !  how  few  persons  understand,  and  forbear  with,  and  pity 
him !  He  sells  his  health  and  youth  to  a  rugged  taskmaster. 
And,  O  blind  and  selfish  world,  you  expect  him  to  be  as  free  of 
manner,  and  as  pleasant  of  cheer,  and  as  equal  of  mood,  as  if  he 
were  passing  the  most  agreeable  and  healthful  existence  that 
pleasure  could  afford  to  smoothe  the  wrinkles  of  the  mind,  or 
medicine  invent  to  regulate  the  nerves  of  the  body  !  But  there 
was,  besides  all  this,  another  cause  that  operated  against  the  suc- 
cessful man  ! — His  heart  was  too  solitary.  He  lived  without  the 
sweet  household  ties — the  connections  and  amities  he  formed 
excited  for  a  moment,  but  possessed  no  charm  to  comfort  or  to 
soothe.  Cleveland  resided  so  much  in  the  country,  and  was  of 
so  much  calmer  a  temperament,  and  so  much  more  advanced  in 
age,  that,  with  all  the  friendship  that  subsisted  between  them, 
there  was  none  of  that  daily  and  familiar  interchange  of  confi- 
dence which  affectionate  natures  demand  as  the  very  food  of 
life.  Of  his  brother  (as  the  reader  will  conjecture  from  never 
having  been  formally  presented  to  him)  Ernest  saw  but  little. 
Colonel  Maltravers,  one  of  the  gayest  and  handsomest  men  of 
his  time,  married  to  a  fine  lady,  lived  principally  in  Paris,  ex- 
cept when,  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  shooting  season,  he  filled  his 
country  house  with  companions  Avho  had  nothing  in  common 
with  Ernest :  the  brothers  corresponded  regularly  every  quarter, 
and  saw  each  other  once  a  year — this  was  all  their  intercourse, 
Ernest  Maltravers  stood  in  the  world  alone,  with  that  cold  but 
anxious  spectre — Reputation. 

It  was  late  at  night.  Before  a  table  covered  with  the  monu- 
ments of  erudition  and  thought  sate  a  young  man  with  a  pale  and 
worn  countenance.  The  clock  in  the  room  told  with  a  fretting 
distinctness  every  moment  that  lessened  the  journey  to  the  grave. 
There  was  an  anxious  and  expectant  expression  on  the  face  of 
the  student,  and  from  time  to  time  he  glanced  at  the  clock,  and 
muttered  to  himself.  Was  it  a  letter  from  some  adored  mistress — 
the  soothing  flattery  from  some  mighty  arbiter  of  arts  and  let- 
ters— tliat  the  young  man  eagerly  awaited  ?  No  ;  the  aspirer  was 


2o8  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

forgotten  in  the  valetudinarian.  Ernest  Maltravers  was  waiting 
the  visit  of  his  physician,  wliom  at  that  hour  a  sudden  thought 
had  induced  him  to  summon  from  his  rest.  At  length  the  well- 
known  knock  was  heard,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  physician 
entered.  He  was  one  well  versed  in  the  peculiar  pathology  of 
book  men,  and  kindly  as  well  as  skillful. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Maltravers,  what  is  this?  How  are  we? — not 
seriously  ill,  I  hope — no  relapse — pulse  low  and  irregular,  I  see, 
but  no  fever.     You  are  nervous." 

"Doctor,"  said  the  student,  "I  did  not  send  for  you  at  this 
time  of  night  from  the  idle  fear  or  fretful  caprice  of  an  invalid. 
But  when  I  saw  you  this  morning,  you  dropped  some  hints  which 
have  haunted  me  ever  since.  Much  that  it  befits  the  conscience 
and  the  soul  to  attend  to  without  loss  of  time,  depends  upon  my 
real  state.  If  I  understand  you  rightly,  I  may  have  but  a  short 
time  to  live — is  it  so  ? " 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  doctor,  turning  away  his  face ;  "you  have 
exaggerated  my  meaning.  I  did  not  say  that  you  were  in  what 
we  technically  call  danger." 

"Am  I  then  likely  to  be  a  long-lived  man  ?" 

The  doctor  coughed — "That  is  uncertain,  my  dear  young 
friend,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  Be  plain  with  me.  The  plans  of  life  must  be  based  upon 
such  calculations  as  we  can  reasonably  form  of  its  probable  dura- 
tion. Do  not  fancy  that  I  am  weak  enough  or  coward  enough 
to  shrink  from  any  abyss  which  I  have  approached  unconsciously; 
I  desire — I  adjure — nay,  I  command  you  to  be  explicit." 

There  was  an  earnest  and  solemn  dignity  in  his  patient's  voice 
and  manner  which  deeply  touched  and  impressed  the  good  phy- 
sician. 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly,"  said  he;  "  you  over-work  the  nerves 
and  the  brain  ;  if  you  do  not  relax,  you  will  subject  yourself  to 
confirmed  disease  and  premature  death.  For  several  months — 
perhaps  for  years  to  come — you  should  wholly  cease  from  literary 
labor.  Is  this  a  hard  sentence  ?  You  are  rich  and  young — en- 
joy yourself  while  you  can." 

Maltravers  appeared  satisfied — changed  the  conversation — 
talked  easily  on  other  matters  for  a  few  minutes  :  nor  was  it  till 
he  had  dismissed  his  physician  that  he  broke  forth  with  the 
thoughts  that  were  burning  in  him. 

"Oh  !  "  cried  he  aloud,  as  he  rose  and  paced  the  room  with 
rapid  strides  ;  "now,  when  I  see  before  me  the  broad  and  lumi- 
nous path,  am  I  to  be  condemned  to  halt  and  turn  aside  ?  A  vast 
empire  rises  on  my  view,  greater  than  that  of  Caesars  and  con- 


ERNESt   MALTRAVERS.  ^^69 

querors — an  empire  durable  and  universal  in  the  souls  of  men, 
that  time  itself  cannot  overthrow  ;  and  Death  marches  with  me, 
side  by  side,  and  the  skeleton  hand  waves  me  back  to  the  noth- 
ingness of  common  men." 

He  paused  at  the  casement — he  threw  it  open,  and  leant  forth 
and  gasped  for  air.  Heaven  was  serene  and  still,  as  morning 
came  coldly  forth  amongst  the  waning  stars  ;  and  the  haunts  of 
men,  in  their  thoroughfare  of  idleness  and  of  pleasure,  were  des- 
olate and  void.     Nothing,  save  Nature,  was  awake. 

"And  if,  O  stars !  "  murmured  Maltravers,  from  the  depth  of 
his  excited  heart — "  if  I  have  been  insensible  to  your  solemn 
beauty — if  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth  had  been  to  me  but  as  air 
and  clay — if  I  were  one  of  a  dull  and  dim-eyed  herd — I  might 
live  on,  and  drop  into  the  grave  from  the  ripeness  of  unprofita- 
ble years.  It  is  because  I  yearn  for  the  great  objects  of  an  immor- 
tal being,  that  life  shrinks  and  shrivels  up  like  a  scroll.  Away! 
I  will  not  listen  to  these  human  and  material  monitors,  and 
consider  life  as  a  thing  greater  than  the  things  that  I  would 
live  for.  My  choice  is  made,  glory  is  more  persuasive  than  the 
grave." 

He  turned  from  the  casement — his  eyes  flashed — his  chest 
heaved — he  trod  the  chamber  with  a  monarch's  air.  All  the  cal- 
culations of  prudence,  all  the  tame  and  methodical  reasonings 
with  which,  from  time  to  time,  he  had  sought  to  sober  down  the 
impetuous  man  into  the  calm  machine,  faded  away  before  the 
burst  of  awful  and  commanding  passions  that  swept  over  his  soul. 
Tell  a  man,  in  the  full  tide  of  his  triumphs,  that  he  bears  death 
within  him  ;  and  what  crisis  of  thought  can  be  more  startling  and 
more  terrible  ! 

Maltravers  had,  as  we  have  seen,  cared  little  for  fame,  till  fame 
had  been  brought  within  his  reach  ;  then,  with  every  step  he  took, 
new  Alps  had  arisen.  Each  new  conjecture  brought  to  light  a 
new  truth  that  demanded  enforcement  or  defence.  Rivalry  and 
competition  chafed  his  blood,  and  kept  his  faculties  at  their  full 
speed.  He  had  the  generous  race-horse  spirit  of  emulation. — 
Ever  in  action,  ever  in  progress,  cheered  on  by  the  sarcasms  of 
foes,  even  more  than  by  the  applause  of  friends,  the  desire  of 
glory  had  become  the  habit  of  existence.  When  we  have  com- 
menced a  career,  what  stop  is  there  till  the  grave  ? — where  is  the 
definite  barrier  of  that  ambition  which,  like  the  eastern  bird, 
seems  ever  on  the  wing,  and  never  rests  upon  the  earth  ?  Our 
names  are  not  settled  tillour  death:  the  ghosts  of  what  we  have 
done  are  made  our  haunting  monitors — our  scourging  avengers — 
if  ever  we  cease  to  do,  or  fall  short  of  the  younger  past.     Repose  is 


216  fifeNEST    MALTRAVtRS, 

oblivion  ;  to  pause  is  to  unravel  all  the  web  that  we  have  woven— 
until  the  tomb  closes  over  us,  and  men,  just  when  it  is  too  late, 
strike  the  fair  balarice  between  ourselves  and  our  rivals  ;  and  we 
are  measured,  not  by  the  least,  but  by  the  greatest,  triumphs  we 
have  achieved.  Oh,  what  a  crushing  sense  of  impotence  comes 
over  us,  when  we  feel  that  our  frame  cannot  support  our  mind — 
when  the  hand  can  no  longer  execute  what  the  soul,  actively  as 
ever,  conceives  and  desires  ! — the  quick  life  tied  to  the  dead 
form — the  ideas  fresh  as  immortality,  gushing  forth  rich  and 
golden,  and  the  broken  nerves,  and  the  aching  frame,  and  the 
weary  eyes ! — the  spirit  athirst  for  liberty  and  heaven — and  the 
damning,  choking  consciousness  that  we  are  walled  up  and  pris- 
oned in  a  dungeon  that  must  be  our  burial- place !  Talk  not 
of  freedom — there  is  no  such  thing  as  freedom  to  a  man 
whose  body  is  the  jail,  whose  infirmities  are  the  racks,  of  his 
genius  ! 

Maltravers  paused  at  last,  and  threw  himself  on  his  sofa, 
wearied  and  exhausted.  Involuntarily,  and  as  a  half-uncon- 
scious means  of  escaping  from  his  conflicting  and  profitless 
emotions,  he  turned  to  several  letters,  which  had  for  hours  lain 
unopened  on  his  table.  Every  one,  the  seal  of  which  he  broke, 
seemed  to  mock  his  state — every  one  seemed  to  attest  the  felicity 
of  his  fortunes.  Some  bespoke  the  admiring  sympathy  of  the 
highest  and  wisest — one  offered  him  a  brilliant  opening  into 
public  life — another  (it  was  from  Cleveland)  was  fraught  with 
all  the  proud  and  rapturous  approbation  of  a  prophet  whose 
auguries  are  at  last  fulfilled.  At  that  letter  Maltravers  sighed 
deeply,  and  paused  before  he  turned  to  the  others.  The  last  he 
opened  was  in  an  unknown  hand,  nor  was  any  name  affixed 
to  it.  Like  all  writers  of  some  note,  Maltravers  was  in  the  habit 
of  receiving  anonymous  letters  of  praise,  censure,  warning,  and 
exhortation — especially  from  young  ladies  at  boarding-schools, 
and  old  ladies  in  the  country ;  but  there  was  that  in  the  first 
sentences  of  the  letter,  which  he  now  opened  with  a  careless 
hand,  that  riveted  his  attention.  It  was  a  small  and  beautiful 
handwriting,  yet  the  letters  were  more  clear  and  bold  tlian  they 
usually  are  in  feminine  caligraphy. 

"  Ernest  Maltravers,"  began  this  singular  effusion,  "have  you 
weighed  yourself  ? — Are  you  aware  of  your  capacities?  Do  you 
feel  that  for  you  there  may  be  a  more  dazzling  reputation  than 
that  which  appears  to  content  you  ?  You  who  seem  to  penetrate 
into  the  subtlest  windings  of  the  human  heart,  and  to  have 
examined  nature  as  through  a  glass — you,  whose  thoughts  stand 
forth   like  armies   marshalled   in   defence  of   truth,  bold   and 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERg,  ill 

dauntless,  and  without  a  stain  upon  their  glittering  armor ; — are 
you,  at  your  age,  and  with  your  advantages,  to  bury  yourself 
amidst  books  and  scrolls?  Do  you  forget  that  action  is  the 
grand  career  for  men  who  think  as  you  do  ?  Will  this  word- 
weighing  and  picture-writing — the  cold  eulogies  of  pedants — 
the  listless  praises  of  literary  idlers,  content  all  the  yearnings  of 
your  ambition  ?  You  were  not  made  solely  for  the  closet ;  '  The 
Dreams  of  Pindus,  and  the  Aonian  Maids '  cannot  endure 
through  the  noon  of  manhood.  You  are  too  practical  for  the 
mere  poet,  and  too  poetical  to  sink  into  the  dull  tenor  of  a 
learned  life.  I  have  never  seen  you,  yet  I  know  you — I  read 
your  spirit  in  your  page ;  that  aspiration  for  something  better 
and  greater  than  the  Great  and  the  Good,  which  colors  all  your 
passionate  revelations  of  yourself  and  others — cannot  be  satisfied 
merely  by  ideal  images.  You  cannot  be  contented,  as  poets 
and  historians  mostly  are,  by  becoming  great  only  from  de- 
lineating great  men,  or  imagining  great  events,  or  describing  a 
great  era.  Is  it  not  worthier  of  you  to  be  what  you  fancy  or 
relate  ?  Awake,  Maltravers,  awake !  Look  into  your  heart, 
and  feel  your  proper  destinies.  And  who  am  I  that  thus  address 
you? — a  woman  whose  soul  is  filled  with  you! — a  woman,  in 
whom  your  eloquence  has  awakened,  amidst  frivolous  and  vain 
circles,  the  sense  of  a  new  existence — a  woman  who  would  make 
you,  yourself,  the  embodied  ideal  of  your  own  thoughts  and 
dreams,  and  who  would  ask  from  earth  no  other  lot  than  that 
of  following  you  on  the  road  of  fame  with  the  eyes  of  her  heart. 
Mistake  me  not  ;  I  repeat  that  I  have  never  seen  you,  nor  do 
I  wish  it  ;  you  might  be  other  than  I  imagine,  and  I  should 
lose  an  idol,  and  be  left  without  a  worship.  I  am  a  kind  of 
visionary  Rosicrucian  :  it  is  a  spirit  that  I  adore,  and  not  a 
being  like  myself.  You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  I  have  some  pur- 
pose to  serve  in  this — I  have  no  object  in  administering  to  your 
vanity  ;  and  if  I  judge  you  rightly,  this  letter  is  one  that  miglit 
make  you  vain  without  a  blush.  Oh,  the  admiration  that  does 
not  spring  from  holy  and  profound  sources  of  emotion — how  it 
saddens  us  or  disgusts  !  I  have  had  my  share  of  vulgar  hom- 
age, and  it  only  makes  me  feel  doubly  alone.  I  am  richer  than 
you — I  have  youth — I  have  what  they  call  beauty.  And  neither 
riches,  youth,  nor  beauty,  ever  gave  me  the  silent  and  deep 
happiness  I  experience  when  I  think  of  you.  This  is  a  wor- 
ship that  might,  I  repeat,  well  make  even  you  vain.  Think  of 
these  words,  I  implore  you.  Be  worthy,  not  of  my  thoughts 
but  of  the  shape  in  which  they  represent  you  :  and  every  ray  of 
glory  that  surrounds  you  will  brighten  my  own  way,  and  inspire 


iti  feRNESt   MaLTRAVERS. 

me  with  a  kindred  emulation.  Farewell, — I  may  write  to  you 
again,  but  you  will  never  discover  me  ;  and  in  life  I  pray  that 
we  may  never  meet .'  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Our  list  of  nobles  next  let  Amri  grace." 

Absalom  and  Achitophel, 

"  Sine  me  vacivum  tempus  ne  quod  dem  mihi 
Laboris."  * — Ter. 

"I  can't  think,"  said  one  of  a  group  of  young  men,  loiter- 
ing by  the  steps  of  a  club-house  in  St.  James  Street — '*  I  can't 
think  what  has  chanced  to  Maltravers.  Do  you  observe  (as  he 
walks — there — the  other  side  of  the  way)  how  much  he  is  al- 
tered ?  He  stoops  like  an  old  man,  and  hardly  ever  lifts  his 
eyes  from  the  ground.     He  certainly  seems  sick  and  sad !  "  ■ 

"  Writing  books,  I  suppose." 

"Or  privately  married." 

"Or  growing  too  rich — rich  men  are  always  unhappy 
beings." 

"  Ha,  Ferrers,  how  are  you  ?" 

"  So — so  !     What's  the  news  ?  "  replied  Lumley. 

"  Rattler  pays  forfeit." 

"  Oh  !  but  in  politics  ?  " 

"  Hang  politics  ! — are  you  turned  politician  ?  " 

"  At  my  age,  what  else  is  there  left  to  do  ? " 

"  I  thought  so,  by  your  hat ;  all  politician  sport  odd-looking 
hats  :  it  is  very  remarkable,  but  that  is  the  great  symptom  of  the 
disease." 

"  My  hat  ! — is  it  odd  ?  "  said  Ferrers,  taking  off  the  commo- 
dity in  question,  and  seriously  regarding  it. 

"Why,  who  ever  saw  such  a  brim  ?" 

"  Glad  you  think  so." 

"  Why,  Ferrers  ? " 

"  Because  it  is  a  prudent  policy  in  this  country  to  surrender 
something  trifling  up  to  ridicule.  If  people  can  abuse  your  hat 
or  your  carriage,  or  the  shape  of  your  nose,  or  a  wart  on  your 
chin,  they  let  slip  a  thousand  more  important  matters.  'Tis  the 
wisdom  of  the  camel-driver,  who  gives  up  his  gown  for  the 
camel  to  trample  on,  that  he  may  escape  himself." 

**  How  droll  you  are,  Ferrers  !  Well,  I  shall  turn  in  and  read 
the  papers  ;  and  you — " 

*  Suffer  me  to  employ  my  spare  time  in  some  kind  of  labor. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  213 

"  Shall  pay  my  visits,  and  rejoice  in  my  hat." 

"  Good  day  to  you  ;  by  the  bye,  your  friend,  Maltravers,  has 
just  passed,  looking  thoughtful,  and  talking  to  himself  ! — What's 
the  matter  with  him  ?" 

"  Lamenting,  perhaps,  that  he,  too,  does  not  wear  an  odd  hat 
for  gentlemen  like  you  to  laugh  at,  and  leave  the  rest  of  him 
in  peace.     Good  day." 

On  went  Ferrers,  and  soon  found  himself  in  the  Mall  of  the 
Park.     Here  he  was  joined  by  Mr,  Templeton. 

"  Well,  Lumley,"  said  the  latter  (and  it  may  be  here  re- 
marked that  Mr,  Templeton  now  exhibited  towards  his  ne- 
phew a  greater  respect  of  manner  and  tone  than  he  had  thought 
it  necessary  to  observe  before) — "  well,  Lumley,  and  have  you 
seen  Lord  Saxingham  ?" 

"  I  have,  sir ;  and  I  regret  to  say — " 

"I  thought  so — I  thought  it,"  interrupted  Templeton  :  "no 
gratitude  in  public  men — no  wish,  in  high  place,  to  honor 
virtue  ! " 

"  Pardon  me ;  Lord  Saxingham  declares  that  he  ^ould  be 
delighted  to  forward  your  views — that  no  man  more  deserves 
a  peerage  ;  but  that — " 

"  Oh,  yes  :  always  *  buts  ! ' " 

"  But  that  there  are  so  many  claimants  at  present  whom  it  is 
impossible  to  satisfy  ;  and — and — but  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  go  on." 

"  Proceed,  sir,  I  beg." 

"Why,  then.  Lord  Saxingham  is  (I  must  be  frank)  a  man 
who  has  a  great  regard  for  his  own  family.  Your  marriage  (a 
source,  my  dear  uncle,  of  the  greatest  gratification  to  me)  cuts 
off  the  probable  chance  of  your  fortune  and  title,  if  you  acquire 
the  latter,  descending  to — " 

"  Yourself  !  "  put  in  Templeton,  dryly.  "  Your  relation  seems, 
for  the  first  time,  to  have  discovered  how  dear  your  interests 
are  to  him." 

"For  me,  individually,  sir,  my  relation  does  not  care  a  rush — 
but  he  cares  a  great  deal  for  any  member  of  his  house  being 
rich  and  in  high  station.  It  increases  the  range  and  credit  of 
his  connections  ;  and  Lord  Saxingham  is  a  man  whom  connec- 
tions help  to  keep  great.  To  be  plain  with  you,  he  will  not  stir 
in  this  business,  because  he  does  not  see  how  his  kinsman  is  to 
be  benefited,  or  his  house  strengthened." 

"  Public  virtue  !  "  exclaimed  Templeton. 

"Virtue,  my  dear  uncle,  is  a  female  :  as  long  as  she  is  pri- 
vate property,  she  is  excellent ;  but  Public  Virtue,  like  any 
Qther  public  lady,  is  a  common  prostitute," 


214  ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS. 

*'  Pshaw  ! "  grunted  Templeton,  who  was  too  much  out  of 
humor  to  read  his  nephew  the  lecture  he  might  otherwise  have 
done  upon  the  impropriety  of  his  simile  ;  for  Mr.  Templeton 
was  one  of  those  men  who  hold  it  vicious  to  talk  of  vice  as  ex- 
isting in  the  world  ;  he  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  anything 
called  by  its  proper  name. 

"  Has  not  Mrs.  Templeton  some  connections  that  may  be 
useful  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  !"  cried  the  uncle,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"  Sorry  to  hear  it — but  we  cannot  expect  all  things  :  you  have 
married  for  love — you  have  a  happy  home,  a  charming  wife — 
this  is  better  than  a  title  and  a  fine  lady." 

"  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers,  you  may  spare  me  your  consolations. 
My  wife — " 

"  Loves  you  dearly,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  imperturbable 
nephew.  "  She  has  so  much  sentiment,  is  so  fond  of  poetry. 
Oh,  yes,  she  must  love  one  who  has  done  so  much  for  her." 

"Done  so  much  ;  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  with  your  fortune — with  your  station — your  just  am- 
bition— you,  who  might  have  married  anyone  ;  nay,  by  remain- 
ing unmarried,  have  conciliated  all  my  interested,  selfish  rela- 
tions, hang  them — you  have  married  a  lady  without  connections, 
— and  what  more  could  you  do  for  her  ?  " 

"Pooh,  pooh  ;  you  don't  know  all." 

Here  Templeton  stopped  short,  as  if  about  to  say  too  much, 
and  frowned  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  he  resumed,  "  Lumley,  I  have 
married,  it  is  true.  You  may  not  be  my  heir,  but  I  will  make 
it  up  to  you — that  is,  if  you  deserve  my  affection." 

*'  My  dear  unc — " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  I  have  projects  for  you.  Let  our  in- 
terests be  the  same.  The  title  may  yet  descend  to  you.  I  may 
have  no  male  offspring — meanwhile,  draw  on  me  to  any  reason- 
able amount — young  men  have  expenses — but  be  prudent,  and 
if  you  want  to  get  on  in  the  world,  never  let  the  world  detect 
your  scrape.     There,  leave  me  now." 

"  My  best,  my  heartfelt  thanks  !  " 

"  Hush — sound  Lord  Saxingham  again  ;  I  must  and  will  have 
this  bauble — I  have  set  my  heart  on  it."  So  saying,  Templeton 
waved  away  his  nephew,  and  musingly  pursued  his  path  towards 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  where  his  carriage  awaited  him.  As  soon 
as  he  entered  his  demesnes,  he  saw  his  wife's  daughter  running 
across  the  lawn  to  greet  him.  His  heart  softened  ;  he  checked 
the  carriage  and  descended  :  he  caressed  her,  he  played  with 
her,  he  laughed  as  she  laughed.    No  parent  could  be  mor?  fond, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  215 

"  Lumley  Ferrers  has  talent  to  do  me  honor,"  said  he,  anx- 
iously, **  but  his  principles  seem  unstable.  However,  surely 
that  open  manner  is  the  sign  of  a  good  heart." 

Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  in  high  spirits,  took  his  way  to  Ernest's 
house.  His  friend  was  not  at  home,  but  Ferrers  never  wanted 
a  host's  presence  in  order  to  be  at  home  himself.  Books  were 
round  him  in  abundance,  but  Ferrers  was  not  one  of  those  who 
read  for  amusement.  He  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  and 
began  weaving  new  meshes  of  ambition  and  intrigue.  At  length 
the  door  opened,  and  Maltravers  entered. 

"Why,  Ernest,  how  ill  you  are  looking  !  " 

"I  have  not  been  well,  but  I  am  now  recovering.  As  physi- 
cians recommend  change  of  air  to  ordinary  patients — so  I  am 
about  to  try  change  of  habit.  Active  1  must  be — action  is  the 
condition  of  my  being ;  but  I  must  have  done  with  books  for 
the  present.     You  see  me  in  a  new  character  ! " 

"How?" 

"That  of  a  public  man — I  have  entered  Parliament." 

"You  astonish  me  ! — I  have  read  the  papers  this  morning.  I 
see  not  even  a  vacancy,  much  less  an  election." 

"  It  is  all  managed  by  the  lawyer  and  the  banker.  In  other 
words,  my  seat  is  a  close  borough." 

"  No  bore  of  constituents.  I  congratulate  you,  and  envy.  I 
wish  I  were  in  Parliament  myself." 

"  You  !    I  never  fancied  you  bitten  by  the  political  mania." 

"  Political ! — no.  But  it  is  the  most  respectable  way,  with 
luck,  of  living  on  the  public.     Better  than  swindling." 

"A  candid  way  of  viewing  the  question.  But  I  thought  at 
one  time  you  were  half  a  Benthamite,  and  that  your  motto  was, 
'  The  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number.'  ' 

"  The  greatest  number  to  me  is  number  one.  I  agree  with 
the  Pythagoreans — unity  is  the  perfect  principle  of  creation  ! 
Seriously,  how  can  you  mistake  the  principles  of  opinion  for 
the  principles  of  conduct  ?  I  am  a  Benthamite,  a  benevolist, 
as  a  logician — but  the  moment  I  leave  the  closet  for  the  world, 
I  lay  aside  speculation  for  others,  and  act  for  myself." 

"  You  are,  at  least,  more  frank  than  prudent  in  these  con- 
fessions." 

"  There  you  are  wrong.  It  is  by  affecting  to  be  worse  than 
we  are  that  we  become  popular — and  we  get  credit  for  being 
both  honest  and  practical  fellows.  My  uncle's  mistake  is  to  be 
a  hypocrite  in  words  :  it  rarely  answers.  Be  frank  in  words, 
and  nobody  will  suspect  hypocrisy  in  your  designs." 

Maltravers  gazed  hard  at  Ferrers — something  revolted  and 


2l6  ERNEST    MALTR AVERS. 

displeased  his  high-wrought  Platonism  in  the  easy  wisdom  of  his 
old  friend.  But  he  felt,  almost  for  the  first  time,  that  Ferrers 
was  a  man  to  get  on  in  this  world — and  he  sighed ;  I  hope  it 
was  for  the  world's  sake  ! 

After  a  short  conversation  on  indifferent  matters,  Cleveland 
was  announced  ;  and  Ferrers,  who  could  make  nothing  out  of 
Cleveland,  soon  withdrew.  Ferrers  was  now  becoming  an 
economist  in  his  time. 

"  My  dear  Maltravers,"  said  Cleveland,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  I  rejoice 
to  find  you  are  extending  your  career  of  usefulness." 

"  Usefulness — ali,  let  me  think  so  !  Life  is  so  uncertain  and 
so  short,  that  we  cannot  too  soon  bring  the  little  it  can  yield 
into  the  great  commonwealth  of  the  Beautiful  or  the  Honest  ; 
and  both  belong  to  and  make  up  the  Useful.  But  in  politics, 
and  in  a  higlily  artificial  state,  what  doubts  beset  us  !  what 
darkness  surrounds  !  If  we  connive  at  abuses,  we  juggle 
with  our  own  reason  and  integrity — if  we  attack  them,  how 
much,  how  fatally  we  may  derange  that  solemn  and  conven- 
tional ORDER  which  is  the  mainspring  of  the  vast  machine! 
How  little,  too,  can  one  man,  whose  talents  may  not  be  in  that 
coarse  road — in  that  mephitic  atmosphere,  be  enabled  to  effect ! " 

"  He  may  effect  a  vast  deal  even  without  eloquence  or  la- 
bor : — he  may  effect  a  vast  deal,  if  he  can  set  one  example, 
amidst  a  crowd  of  selfish  aspirants  and  heated  fanatics,  of  an 
honest  and  dispassionate  man.  He  may  effect  more,  if  he  may 
serve  among  the  representatives  of  that  hitherto  unrepresented 
thing — Literature ;  if  he  redeem,  by  an  ambition  above  place 
and  emolument,  the  character  for  subservience  that  court-poets 
have  obtained  for  letters — if  he  may  prove  that  speculative 
knowledge  is  not  disjoined  from  the  practical  world,  and  main- 
tain the  dignity  of  disinterestedness  that  should  belong  to  learn- 
ing. But  the  end  of  a  scientific  morality  is  not  to  serve  others 
only,  but  also  to  perfect  and  accomplish  our  individual  selves  ; 
our  own  souls  are  a  solemn  trust  to  our  own  lives.  You  are 
about  to  add  to  your  experience  of  human  motives  and  active 
men  ;  and  whatever  additional  wisdom  you  acquire  will  become 
equally  evident  and  equally  useful,  no  matter  whether  it  be  com- 
municated through  action  or  in  books.  Enough  of  this,  my  dear 
Ernest.  I  have  come  to  dine  with  you,  and  make  you  ac- 
company me  to-night  to  a  house  where  you  will  be  welcome,  and 
I  think  interested.  Nay,  no  excuses.  I  have  promised  Lord 
Latimer  that  he  shall  make  your  acquaintance,  and  he  is  one  of 
the  most  eminent  men  with  whom  political  life  will  connect  you." 


ERNEST    MALTR AVERS.  217 

And  to  this  change  of  habits,  from  the  closet  to  the  senate, 
had  Maltravers  been  induced  by  a  state  of  health,  which,  with 
most  men,  would  have  been  an  excuse  for  indolence.  Indolent 
he  could  not  be  ;  he  had  truly  said  to  Ferrers,  that  "action  was 
the  condition  of  his  being."  If  thought,  with  its  fever  and 
aching  tension,  had  been  too  severe  a  taskmaster  on  the  nerves 
and  brain,  the  coarse  and  homely  pursuit  of  political  politics 
Would  leave  the  imagination  and  intellect  in  repose,  wliile  it 
would  excite  the  hardier  qualities  and  gifts,  which  animate  with- 
out exhausting.  So,  at  least,  hoped  Maltravers.  He  remem- 
bered the  profound  saying  in  one  of  his  favorite  German  au- 
thors, "  that  to  keep  the  mind  and  body  in  perfect  health,  it  is 
necessary  to  mix  habitually  and  betimes  in  the  common  affairs 
of  men."  And  the  anonymous  correspondent  ; — had  her  exhor- 
tations any  influence  on  his  decision  ?  I  know  not.  But 
when  Cleveland  left  him,  Maltravers  unlocked  his  desk,  and  re- 
perused  the  last  letter  he  had  received  from  the  Unknown.  The 
last  letter ! — yes,  those  epistles  had  now  become  frequent. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

*  *  *  *  "  Le  brillant  devotre  esprit  donne  un  si  grand  eclat  4  votreteint 
et  a  vos  yeux,  que  quoiqu'il  semble  que  I'esprit  ne  doit  toucher  que  les 
oreilies,  il  est  pourtant  certain  que  la  votre  eblouit  les   yeux." — Leitres  de 

Madatiie  Shjigne'.* 

At  Lord  Latimer's  house  were  assembled  some  hundreds  of 
those  persons  who  are  rarely  found  together  in  London  society; 
for  business,  politics,  and  literature  draft  off  the  most  eminent 
men,  and  usually  leave  to  houses  that  receive  the  world  little 
better  than  indolent  rank  or  ostentatious  wealth.  Even  the 
young  men  of  pleasure  turn  up  their  noses  at  parties  nowa- 
days, and  find  society  a  bore.  But  there  are  some  dozen  or 
two  of  houses,  the  owners  of  which  are  both  apart  from  and 
above  the  fashion,  in  which  a  foreigner  may  see,  collected  under 
the  same  roof,  many  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  busy, 
thoughtful,  majestic  England.  Lord  Latimer  himself  had  been 
a  cabinet  minister.  He  retired  from  public  life  on  pretence  of 
ill-health  ;  but,  in  reality,  because  its  anxious  bustle  was  not 
congenial  to  a  gentle  and  accomplished,  but  somewhat  feeble, 
mind.  With  a  high  reputation  and  an  excellent  cook,  he  en- 
joyed a  great  popularity,  both  with  his  own  party  and  the  world 

*  The  brilliancy  of  your  wit  gives  so  great  a  lustre  to  your  complexion  and  your  eyes 
that,  though  it  seems  that  wit  should  only  reach  the  ears,  it  is  altogether  certain  that  your* 
dazzles  the  eyes. 


2lS  tRNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

in  general ;  and  he  was  tlie  centre  of  a  small  but  distinguished 
circle  of  acquaintances,  who  drank  Latimer's  wine,  and  quoted 
Latimer's  sayings,  and  liked  Latimer  much  better  because,  not 
being  author  or  minister,  he  was  not  in  their  way. 

Lord  Latimer  received  Maltravers  with  marked  courtesy,  and 
even  deference,  and  invited  him  to  join  his  own  whist-table,  which 
was  one  of  the  highest  compliments  his  lordship  could  pay  to 
his  intellect.  But  when  his  guest  refused  the  preferred  honor, 
the  Earl  turned  him  over  to  the  Countess,  as  having  become  the 
property  of  the  womankind  ;  and  was  soon  immersed  in  his 
Eipirations  for  the  odd  trick. 

While  Maltravers  was  conversing  with  Lady  Latimer,  he  hap- 
pened to  raise  his  eyes,  and  saw  opposite  to  him  a  young  lady 
of  such  remarkable  beauty  that  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
an  admiring  exclamation. — "  And  who,"  he  asked,  recovering 
himself,  "  is  that  lady  ?  It  is  strange  that  even  I,  who  go  so  little 
into  the  world,  should  be  compelled  to  inquire  the  name  of  one 
whose  beauty  must  already  have  made  her  celebrated." 

"Oh,  Lady  Florence Lascelles — she  came  out  last  year.  She 
isi,  indeed,  most  brilliant,  yet  more  so  in  mind  and  accomplish- 
ments than  face.    I  must  be  allowed  to  introduce  you." 

Atthisoffer,  a  strange  shyness,  and  as  it  were  reluctant  distrust, 
Seized  Maltravers — a  kind  of  presentiment  of  danger  and  evil. 
Ke  drew  back,  and  would  have  made  some  excuse,  but  Lady 
Latimerdidnot  heed  his  embarrassment,  and  was  already  by  the 
ST.de  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  A  moment  more,  and  beckoning 
to  Maltravers,  the  Countess  presented  him  to  the  lady.  As  he 
bowed  and  seated  himself  beside  his  new  acquaintance,  he  could 
not  Dut  observe  that  her  cheeks  were  suffused  with  the  most  lively 
blushes,  and  that  she  received  him  with  a  confusion  not  common 
even  in  ladies  just  brought  out,  and  just  introduced  to  "a lion." 
He  was  rather  puzzled  than  flattered  by  these  tokens  of  an 
embarrassment  somewhat  akin  to  his  own  ;  and  the  first  few 
sentences  of  their  conversation  passed  off  with  a  certain  awkward- 
ness and  reserve.  At  this  moment,  to  the  surprise,  perhaps  to 
the  relief,  of  Ernest,  they  were  joined  by  Limiley  Ferrers. 

"Ah,  Lady  Florence,  I  kiss  your  hands — I  am  charmed  to 
find  you  acquainted  with  my  friend  Maltravers." 

**  And  Mr.  Ferrers,  what  makes  him  so  late  to-night  ?  "  asked  the 
fair  Florence,  with  a  sudden  ease  which  rather  startled  Maltravers. 

"  A  duW  dinner,  voi7a  fouL^ — I  have  no  other  excuse."  And 
Ferrers,  sliding  into  a  vacant  chair  on  the  other  side  of  Lady 
Florence,  conversed  volubly  and  unceasingly,  as  if  seeking  to 
monopolize  her  attention. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  iig 

Ernest  had  not  been  so  much  captivated  with  the  manner  of 
Florence  as  he  had  been  struck  with  her  beauty,  and  now  seeing 
her  apparently  engaged  with  anotlier,  he  rose  and  quietly  moved 
away.  He  was  soon  one  of  a  knot  of  men  who  were  conversing 
on  the  absorbing  topics  of  the  day  ;  and  as  by  degrees  the  exciting 
subject  brought  out  his  natural  eloquence  and  masculine  sense, 
the  talkers  became  listeners,  the  knot  widened  into  a  circle,  and 
he  himself  was  unconsciously  the  object  of  general  attention 
and  respect. 

"  And  what  think  you  of  Mr,  Maltravers  ? "  asked  Ferrers 
carelessly  ;  "does  he  keep  up  your  expectations?" 

Lady  Florence  had  sunk  into  a  reverie,  and  Ferrers  repeated 
his  question. 

"He  is  younger  than  I  imagined  him, — and — and — " 

"  Handsomer,  I  suppose,  you  mean." 

"  No  !  calmer  and  less  animated." 

"He  seems  animated  enough  now,"  said  Ferrers  ;  "but  you/ 
ladylike  conversation  failed  in  striking  the  Promethean  spark. 

*  Lay  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul.'  " 

"Ah,  you  are  right — he  must  have  thought  me  very — " 

"Beautiful,  no  doubt." 

"  Beautiful !  I  hate  the  word,  Lumley.  I  wish  I  were  not 
handsome — I  might  then  get  some  credit  for  my  intellect." 

"Humph!"  said  Ferrers,  significantly. 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  so,  skeptic,"  said  Florence,  shaking  her 
head  with  a  slight  laugh  and  an  altered  manner. 

"  Does  it  matter  what  /  think,"  said  Ferrers,  with  an  attempted 
touch  at  the  sentimental,  "when  Lord  This,  and  Lord  That,  and 
Mr.  So-and-so,  and  Count  What-d'ye-call-him,  are  all  making 
their  way  to  you,  to  dispossess  me  of  my  envied  monopoly?" 

While  Ferrers  spoke,  several  of  the  scattered  loungers  grouped 
around  Florence,  and  the  conversation — of  which  she  was  the 
cynosure,  became  animated  and  gay.  Oh,  how  brilliant  she  was, 
that  peerless  Florence  ! — with  what  petulant  and  sparkling  grace 
came  wit  and  wisdom,  and  even  genius,  from  those  ruby  lips ! 
Even  the  assured  Ferrers  felt  his  subtle  intellect  as  dull  and 
coarse  to  hers,  and  shrank  with  a  reluctant  apprehension  from 
the  arrows  of  her  careless  and  prodigal  repartees.  For  there  was 
a  scorn  in  the  nature  of  Florence  Lascelles  which  made  her  wit 
pain  more  frequently  than  it  pleased.  Educated  even  to  learn- 
ing— courageous  even  to  a  want  of  feminacy — she  delighted  to 
sport  with  ignorance  and  pretension,  even  in  tlie  highest  places  ; 
and  the  laugh  that  she  excited  was  like  lightning, —  no  one  could 
divine  where  next  it  might  fall.- 


220  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

But  Florence,  though  dreaded  and  unloved,  was  yet  courted, 
flattered,  and  the  rage.  For  this  there  were  two  reasons  :  first, 
she  was  a  coquette,  and  secondly,  she  was  an  heiress. 

Thus  the  talkers  in  the  room  were  divided  into  two  principal 
groups,  over  one  of  which  INIaltravers  may  have  said  to  have 
presided  ;  over  the  other,  Florence.  As  the  former  broke  up, 
Ernest  was  joined  by  Cleveland. 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  said  Florence,  suddenly,  and  in  a  whisper, 
as  she  turned  to  Lumley,  "your  friend  is  speaking  of  me — I  see 
it.     Go,  I  implore  you.  and  let  me  know  what  he  says  !  " 

"  The  commission  is  not  flattering,"  said  Ferrers,  almost 
sullenly. 

"  Nay,  a  commission  to  gratify  a  woman's  curiosity  is  ever 
one  of  the  most  flattering  embassies  with  which  we  can  invest 
an  able  negotiator." 

"Well,  I  must  do  your  bidding,  though  I  disown  the  favor." 
Ferrers  moved  away  and  joined  Cleveland  and  Maltravers. 

"  She  is  indeed  beautiful ;  so  perfect  a  contour  I  never  be- 
held ;  she  is  the  only  woman  I  ever  saw  in  whom  the  aquiline 
features  seem  more  classical  than  even  the  Greek." 

"  So,  that  is  your  opinion  of  my  fair  cousin  ! "  cried  Ferrers  ; 
"  you  are  caught." 

"  I  wish  he  were,"  said  Cleveland.  "  Ernest  is  now  old 
enough  to  settle,  and  there  is  not  a  more  dazzling  prize  in  Eng- 
land— rich,  high-born,  lovely,  and  accomplished." 

"  And  what  say  you  ?  "  asked  Lumley,  almost  impatiently  to 
Maltravers. 

"  That  I  never  saw  one  whom  I  admire  more  or  could  love 
less,"  replied  Ernest,  as  he  quitted  the  rooms. 

Ferrers  looked  after  him,  and  muttered  to  himself ;  he  then 
rejoined  Florence,  who  presently  rose  to  depart,  and,  taking 
Lumley's  arm,  said,  "Well,  I  see  my  father  is  looking  round  for 
me — and  so  for  once  I  will  forestall  him.  Come,  Lumley,  let 
us  join  him  ;  I  know  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Florence,  blushing  deeply,  and  almost  breath- 
less, as  they  crossed  the  now  half -empty  apartments. 

"  Well,  my  cousin  ?" 

"  You  provoke  me — well,  then,  what  said  your  friend  ?" 

"  That  you  deserved  your  reputation  of  beauty,  but  that  you 
were  not  his  style.     Maltravers  is  in  love,  you  know  ?" 

"  In  love  !  " 

"Yes,  a  pretty  Frenchwoman  !  quite  romantic — an  attach- 
ment of  some  years'  standing." 

Florence  turned  away  her  face,  and  said  no  more. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  221 

**  That's  a  good  fellow,  Lumley,"  said  Lord  Saxiiighani ;  "Flor- 
ence is  never  more  welcome  to  my  eyes  than  at  half-past 
one  o'clock  A.  M.,  when  I  associate  her  with  thoughts  of  my 
natural  rest  and  my  unfortunate  carriage-horses.  By  the  bye, 
I  wish  you  would  dine  with  me  next  Saturday." 

"Saturday  ;  unfortunately,  I  am  engaged  to  my  uncle." 

"  Oh  !  he  has  behaved  handsomely  to  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Mrs.  Templeton  pretty  well  ? " 

"  1  fancy  so." 

"As  ladies  wish  to  be,  etc  ?  "  whispered  his  lordship. 

**  No,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"  Well,  if  the  old  man  could  but  make  you  his  heir,  we  might 
think  twice  about  the  title," 

"  My  dear  lord,  stop  ;  one  favor — write  me  a  line  to  hint 
that  delicately." 

"  No — no  letters ;  letters  always  get  into  the  papers." 

"  But  cautiously  worded — no  danger  of  publication,  on  my 
honor." 

"  I'll  think  of  it.     Good-night." 


BOOK   VII. 


Xp^  o>g  apiOTOv  fM£v  avTov  neipaadai,  yiVEoQai,  /i^  fibvov  ieavrbv  vofxi^eiv  apiarov 
SvvaaOai  yevlaOai,  etc. — Plotin.  En.  ii.  lib.  ix.  c.  9. 

Every  man  should  strive  to  be  as  good  as  possible,  but  not  suppose  himself 
to  be  the  only  thing  that  is  good. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Deceit  is  the  strong  but  subtile  chain  v*rhich  runs  through  all  the  mem- 
bers of  a  society  and  links  ttiem  together  ;  trick  or  be  tricked,  is  the  alter- 
native ;  'tis  the  way  of  the  world,  and  without  it  intercourse  would  drop." — 
A  nonymo us  Writer  of  1^22 . 

"  A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene. 
And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifferent  shed 
The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence  they  came." 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

"  His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old. " — Shakespeare. 

"  He  after  honor  hunts,  I  after  love." — Ibid. 

Lumley  Ferrers  was  one  of  the  few  men  in  the  world  who 
act  upon  a  profound,  deliberate,  and  organized  system — he  had 


222  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

done  so  even  from  a  boy.  When  he  was  twenty-one,  he  had 
said  to  himself,  "  Youth  is  the  season  for  enjoyment  ;  the 
triumphs  of  manhood,  the  wealth  of  age,  do  not  compensate  for 
a  youth  spent  in  unpleasurable  toils."  Agreeably  to  this  maxim, 
he  had  resolved  not  to  adopt  any  profession  ;  and  being  fond 
of  travel,  and  of  a  restless  temper,  he  had  indulged  abroad  in 
all  the  gratifications  that  his  moderate  income  could  afford  him  : 
that  income  went  farther  on  the  Continent  than  at  home, 
which  was  another  reason  for  the  prolongation  of  his  travels. 
Now,  when  the  whims  and  passions  of  youth  were  sated  ;  and, 
ripened  by  a  consummate  and  various  knowledge  of  mankind, 
his  harder  capacities  of  mind  became  developed  and  centred 
into  such  ambition  as  it  was  his  nature  to  conceive,  he  acted  no 
less  upon  a  regular  and  methodical  plan  of  conduct,  which  he 
carried  into  details.  He  had  little  or  nothing  within  himself  to 
cross  his  cold  theories  by  contradictory  practice  ;  for  he  was 
curbed  by  no  principles,  and  regulated  but  by  few  tastes :  and 
our  tastes  are  often  checks  as  powerful  as  our  principles.  Look- 
ing round  the  English  world,  Ferrers  saw  that  at  his  age  and 
with  an  equivocal  position,  and  no  chances  to  throw  awaj'-,  it 
was  necessary  that  he  shoidd  cast  off  all  attributes  of  the  ciiar- 
acter  of  the  wanderer  and  the  gargon. 

"  There  is  nothing  respectable  in  lodgings  and  a  cab,"  said 
Ferrers  to  himself — that  ''^self"  was  Iiis  grand  confidant! — 
"nothing  stationary.  Such  are  the  appliances  of  a  here-to-day- 
gone-to-morrow  kind  of  life.  One  never  looks  substantial 
till  one  pays  rates  and  taxes,  and  has  a  bill  with  one's 
butcher!" 

Accordingly,  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody,  Ferrers  took 
a  long  lease  of  a  large  house,  in  one  of  those  quiet  streets  that 
proclaim  the  owners  do  not  wish  to  be  made  by  fashionable 
situations — streets  in  which,  if  you  have  a  large  house,  it  is 
supposed  to  be  because  you  can  afford  one.  He  was  very  par- 
ticular in  its  being  a  respectable  street — Great  George  Street, 
Westminster,  was  the  one  he  selected. 

No  frippery  or  baubles,  common  to  the  mansions  of  young 
bachelors — no  buhl,  and  marquetrie,  and  Sevres  china,  and 
cabinet  pictures,  distinguished  the  large,  dingy  drawing-rooms 
of  Lumley  Ferrers.  He  bought  all  the  old  furniture  a  bargain 
of  the  late  tenant — tea-colored  chintz  curtains,  and  chairs  and 
sofas  that  were  venerable  and  solemn  with  the  accumulated 
dust  of  twenty-five  years.  Tlie  only  things  about  which  he  was 
particular  were  a  very  long  dining-table  that  would  hold  four- 
and-twenty,  and  a  new  mahogany  sideboard.     Somebody  asked 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  223 

him  why  he  cared  about  such  articles.  "I  don't  know,"  said 
he,  "but  I  observe  all  respectable  faniily-nien  do — there  must 
^e  something  in  it — I  shall  discover  the  secret  by-and-by." 

In  this  house  did  Mr.  Ferrers  ensconce  himself  with  two 
middle-aged  maid-servants,  and  a  man  out  of  livery,  whom  he 
chose  from  a  multitude  of  candidates  because  the  man  looked 
especially  well  fed. 

Having  thus  settled  himself,  and  told  every  one  that  the  lease 
of  his  house  was  for  sixty-three  years,  Lumley  Ferrers  made  a 
little  calculation  of  his  probable  expenditure,  which  he  found, 
with  good  management,  might  amount  to  about  one-fourth 
more  than  his  income. 

"  I  shall  take  the  surplus  out  of  my  capital,"  said  he,  "  and 
try  the  experiment  for  five  years  ;  if  it  don't  do,  and  pay  me 
profitably,  why  then  either  men  are  not  to  be  lived  upon,  or 
Lumley  Ferrers  is  a  much  duller  dog  than  he  thinks  himself  ! " 

Mr.  Ferrers  had  deeply  studied  the  character  of  his  uncle, 
as  a  prudent  speculator  studies  the  qualities  of  a  mine  in  which 
he  means  to  invest  his  capital,  and  much  of  his  present  pro- 
ceedings was  intended  to  act  upon  the  uncle  as  well  as  upon  the 
world.  He  saw  that  the  more  he  could  obtain  for  himself,  not 
a  noisy,  social,  fashionable  reputation,  but  a  good,  sober,  sub- 
stantial one,  the  more  highly  Mr.  Templeton  would  consider 
him,  and  the  more  likely  he  was  to  be  made  his  uncle's  heir, — 
that  is,  provided  Mrs.  Templeton  did  not  supersede  the  nepotal 
parasite  by  indigenous  olive-branches.  This  last  apprehension 
died  away  as  time  passed  and  no  signs  of  fertility  appeared. 
And,  accordingly,  Ferrers  thought  he  might  prudently  hazard 
more  upon  the  game  he  now  ventured  to  rely.  There  was  one 
thing,  however,  that  greatly  disturbed  his  peace  ;  Mr.  Temple- 
ton, though  harsh  and  austere  in  his  manner  to  his  wife,  was 
evidently  attached  to  her  ;  and,  above  all,  he  cherished  the 
fondest  affection  for  his  daughter-in-law.  He  was  anxious  for 
her  health,  her  education,  her  little  childish  enjoyments,  as  if 
he  had  been  not  only  her  parent  but  a  ven'  doting  one.  He 
could  not  bear  her  to  be  crossed  or  thwarted.  Mr.  Templeton, 
who  had  never  spoiled  anything  before,  not  even  an  old  pen 
(so  careful,  and  calculating,  and  methodical  was  he),  did  his 
best  to  spoil  this  beautiful  child,  whom  he  could  not  even  have 
the  vain  luxury  of  thinking  he  had  produced  to  the  admiring 
world.  Softly,  exquisitely  lovely  Avas  that  little  girl  ;  and  every 
day  she  increased  in  the  charm  of  her  person,  and  in  the  caress- 
ing fascination  of  her  childish  ways.  Her  temper  was  so  sweet 
and  docile  that  fondness  and   petting,   however  injudiciously 


224  ERNF.ST    MALTRAVERS. 

exhibited,  only  seemed  yet  more  to  bring  out  the  colors  of  a 
grateful  and  tender  nature.  Perhaps  the  measured  kindness  of 
more  reserved  affection  might  have  been  tlie  true  way  of  spoil- 
ing one  whose  instincts  were  all  for  exacting  and  returning  love. 
She  was  a  plant  that  suns  less  warm  miglit  have  nipped  and 
chilled.  But  beneath  an  uncapricious  and  unclouded  sunshine 
she  sprang  up  in  a  luxurious  bloom  of  heart  and  sweetness  of 
disposition. 

Every  one,  even  those  who  did  not  generally  like  children,  de- 
lighted in  this  charming  creature,  excepting  only  Mr.  Lumley 
Ferrers.     But  that  gentleman,  less  mild  than  Pope's  Narcissa, — 
"  To  make  a  wash,  had  gladly  stewed  the  child  !  " 

He  had  seen  how  very  common  it  is  for  a  rich  man,  married 
late  in  life,  to  leave  everything  to  a  young  widow  and  her  chil- 
dren by  her  former  marriage,  when  once  attached  to  the  latter; 
and  he  sensibly  felt  that  he  himself  had  but  a  slight  hold  over 
Templeton  by  the  chain  of  the  affections.  He  resolved,  there- 
fore, as  much  as  possible,  to  alienate  his  uncle  from  his  young 
wife  ;  trusting  that,  as  the  influence  of  the  wife  was  weakened, 
that  of  the  child  would  be  lessened  also  ;  and  to  raise  in  Temple- 
ton's  vanity  and  ambition  an  ally  that  might  supply  to  himself 
the  want  of  love.  He  pursued  his  twofold  scheme  with  masterly 
art  and  address.  He  first  sought  to  secure  the  confidence  and 
regard  of  the  melancholy  and  gentle  mother ;  and  in  this — for 
she  was  peculiarly  unsuspicious  and  inexperienced, — he  obtained 
signal  and  complete  success.  His  frankness  of  manner,  his  def- 
erential attention,  the  art  with  which  he  warded  off  from  her  the 
spleen  or  ill-humor  of  Mr.  Templeton,  the  cheerfulness  that  his 
easy  gayety  threw  over  a  very  gloomy  house,  made  the  poor  lady 
hail  his  visits  and  trust  in  his  friendship.  Perhaps  she  was  glad 
of  any  interruption  to  tite-ci-tetes  with  a  severe  and  ungenial  hus- 
band, who  had  no  sympathy  for  the  sorrows,  of  whatever  nature 
they  might  be,  which  preyed  upon  her,  and  who  made  it  a  point 
of  morality  to  find  fault  wherever  he  could. 

The  next  step  in  Lumley's  policy  was  to  arm  Templeton's 
vanity  against  his  wife,  by  constantly  refreshing  his  conscious- 
ness of  the  sacrifices  he  had  made  by  marriage,  and  the  certainty 
that  he  would  have  attained  all  his  wishes  had  he  chosen  more 
prudently.  By  perpetually,  but  most  judiciously,  rubbing  this 
point,  he,  as  it  were,  fixed  the  irritability  into  Templeton's  con- 
stitution, and  it  reacted  on  all  his  thoughts,  aspiring  or  domes- 
tic. Still,  however,  to  Lumley's  great  surprise  and  resentment, 
while  Templeton  cooled  to  his  wife,  he  only  warmed  to  her  child- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  22$ 

Limiley  had  not  calculated  enough  upon  the  thirst  and  craving 
for  affection  in  most  human  liearts  ;•  and  Templeton,  though  not 
exactly  an  amiable  man,  had  some  excellent  qualities  ;  if  he  had 
}e&s  sensitively  regarded  the  opinion  of  the  world,  he  would 
neither  have  contracted  the  vocabulary  of  cant,  nor  sickened 
for  a  peerage  ;  both  his  affectation  of  saintship,  and  his  gnawing 
desire  of  rank,  arose  from  an  extraordinary  and  morbid  defer- 
ence to  opinion,  anda  wish  for  worldly  honors  and  respect,  which 
hC;  felt  that  his  mere  talents  could  not  secure  to  him.  But  he 
>yas,^t  bottom,,  a  kindly  man— charitable  to  the  poor,  consider*- 
ate  to  his  servants,  and  had  within  him  the  want  to  love  and 
be  loved,  which  is  one  of  ihe  desires  wherewith  the  atoms  of  the 
U:i;Hverse  are  cemented  and  harmonized.  Had  Mrs.  Templeton 
evinced  loveXo  hiin^  he  might  have  defied  all  Lumley's  diplo- 
macy, been  consoled  for  worldly  disadvantages,  and  been  a  good 
and  even  uxorious  husband.  But  she  evidently  did  not  love 
him,  though  anadmirable,patient,  provident  wife;  and  her  daugh- 
ter </jV/love  him — loved  him  as  well  even  as  she  loved  her  mother; 
aod  the  hard  worldling  would  not  have  accepted  a  kingdom  as 
the  price  of  that  little  fountain  Of  pure  and  ever-refreshing  ten- 
4er9.c8Si  Wise  and  penetrating  as  Lumley  was,  he  never  could 
t^ioroughly.  understand  this  weakness,  as  he  called  it ;  for  we 
never  kiww  men  entirely,  unless  we  have  complete  sympathies 
with  men  in,all  theix  natural. emotions ;  and  Nature  had  left  the 
workmanship  of  Lumley  Ferrers  unfinished  and  incomplete,  by 
4ejiying,him  the  possibility,  of  caring  for  anything  but  himselfi 
Ilis  plan  for  winning  Templeton's  esteem  and  deference  was, 
hopever,  completely  triumphant.  He  took  care  that  nothing  in 
his  menage  should  appeax  "'extravagant;"  all  was  sober,  quiet, 
and  vkrell-regulated.  .  He  declared  that  he  had  so  managed  as  to 
live  within  his  income.:  and  Templeton,  receiving  no  hint  for 
riioney,  npr  aware  that  Ferrers  had -on  the  Coiltinent  consumed 
a  considerable  portion  pf  bis  means,  believed  him.  Ferrers  gave 
a.^reat  many ,  dinnevSj.but.,  he  did  not  go  on  that  foolish  plan 
whichjias  been  rlaid  down  by  persons  who  pretend  to  know  life* 
as  a  riieana  of  popularity— he  did  not  profess  to  give  dinners 
butter  than  other  peo-ple.  He  knew  that  unless  you  are  a  very 
rich  or  a.very  great  man,  ;no  foUy  is  equal  to  that  of  thinking 
jthat  ypu  soften  the  hearts  of  your  friends  by  soups  a  la  bisque^ 
arid  Johannisherg  at  a  guinea  a  bottle.  They  all  go  away,  say- 
i;ig,.."  What  right  has  that  d—d  fellow  to  give  a  better  dinner  than 
Sif:,  dp ?]  ,\Xh3t,  hqrrid  taste.!  What  ridiculous  presumption!','.; 
^,rl^llq  vtl^i^gh  Ferrers  himself  Wc^vs  a  most  scientific  epicure,  and 
hel4  theiiuxii,r,y;  e^.tl^e-psli^  at;  ,tlit: highest  rpo^sibie  ptice,  lie 


226  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

dieted  his  friends  on  what  he  termed  " respectable  fare."  His 
cook  put  plenty  of  flour  into  the  oyster-sauce  ;  cod's  head  and 
shoulders  made  his  invariable  fish  ;  and  four  entries,  without 
flavor  or  pretence,  were  duly  supplied  by  the  pastrycook,  and 
carefully  eschewed  by  the  host.  Neither  did  Mr.  Ferrers  affect 
to  bring  about  him  gay  wits  and  brilliant  talkers.  He  confined 
himself  to  men  of  substantial  consideration,  and  generally  took 
care  to  be  himself  the  cleverest  person  present ;  while  he  turned 
the  conversation  on  serious  matters  crammed  for  the  occasion — 
politics,  stocks,  commerce,  and  the  criminal  code.  Pruning  his 
gayety,  though  he  retained  his  frankness,  he  sought  to  be  known 
as  a  highly-informed,  painstaking  man,  who  would  be  sure  to 
rise.  His  connections,  and  a  certain  nameless  charm  about  him, 
consisting  chiefly  in  a  pleasant  countenance,  a  bold  yet  winning 
candor,  and  the  absence  of  all  hauteur  or  pretence,  enabled  him 
to  assemble  round  this  plain  table,  which,  if  it  gratified  no  taste, 
wounded  no  self-love,  a  sufficient  number  of  public  men  of  rank, 
and  eminent  men  of  business,  to  answer  his  purpose.  The  situa- 
tion he  had  chosen,  so  near  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  was  con- 
venient to  politicians,  and,  by  degrees,  the  large,  dingy  drawing- 
rooms  became  a  frequent  resort  for  public  men  to  talk  over  those 
thousand  underplots  by  which  a  party  is  served  or  attacked. 
Thus,  though  not  in  Parliament  himself,  Ferrers  became  insen- 
sibly associated  with  Parliament  men  and  things;  and  the  min- 
isterial party,  whose  politics  he  espoused,  praised  him  highly, 
made  use  of  him,  and  meant,  some  day  or  other,  to  do  something 
for  him. 

:  While  the  career  of  this  able  and  unprincipled  man  thus 
opened — and  of  course  the  opening  was  not  made  in  a  day — 
Ernest  Maltravers  was  ascending,  by  a  rough,  thorny,  and  en- 
cumbered path,  to  that  eminence  on  which  the  monuments  of 
men  are  built.  His  success  in  public  life  was  not  brilliant  nor 
sudden.  For  though  he  had  eloquence  and  knowledge,  he  dis- 
dained all  oratorical  devices  ;  and  though  he  had  passion  and 
energy,  he  could  scarcely  be  called  a  warm  partisan.  He  met 
with  much  envy  and  many  obstacles  ;  and  the  gracious  and 
buoyant  sociality  of  temper  and  manners  that  had  in  early  youth 
made  him  the  idol  of  his  contemporaries  at  school  or  college 
had  long  since  faded  away  into  a  cold,  settled,  and  lofty  though 
gentle  reserve,  which  did  not  attract  toward  him  the  animal 
spirits  of  the  herd.  But  though  he  spoke  seldom,  and  heard 
mkny  with  half  his  powers  more  enthusiastically  cheered,  he  did 
not  fail  of  commanding  attention  and  respect ;  and  though  no 
darling  pf  cliques  and  parties,  yet  in  ih^t  great  body  of  the  peo- 


ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS.  227 

pie  who  were  ever  the  audience  and  tribunal  to  which,  in  letters 
or  in  politics,  Maltravers  appealed,  there  was  silently  growing 
up,  and  spreading  wide,  a  belief  in  his  upright  intentions,  his 
unpurchasable  honor,  and  his  correct  and  well-considered  views. 
He  felt  that  his  name  was  safely  invested,  though  the  return  for 
the  capital  was  slow  and  moderate.  He  was  contented  to  abide 
his  time. 

Everydayhe  grew  more  attached  to  that  only  true  philosophy 
which  makes  a  man,  as  far  as  the  world  will  permit,  a  world  to 
himself  ;  and  from  the  height  of  a  tranquil  and  serene  self- 
esteem  he  felt  the  sun  shine  above  him  when  malignant  clouds 
spread  sullen  and  uncongenial  below.  He  did  not  despise  or 
wilfully  shock  opinion,  neither  did  he  fawn  upon  or  flatter  it. 
Where  he  thought  the  world  should  be  humored,  he  humored — 
where  contemned,  he  contemned  it.  There  are  many  cases  in 
which  an  honest,  well-educated,  high-hearted  individual  is  a 
much  better  judge  than  the  multitude  of  what  is  right  and  what 
is  wrong ;  and  in  these  matters  he  is  not  worth  three  straws  if 
he  suffer  the  multitude  to  bully  or  coax  him  out  of  his  judgment. 
The  Public,  if  you  indulge  it,  is  a  most  damnable  gossip,  thrust- 
ing its  nose  into  people's  concerns,  where  it  has  no  right  to  make 
or  meddle  ;  and  in  those  things  where  the  Public  is  impertinent, 
Maltravers  scorned  and  resisted  its  interference  as  haughtily  as 
he  would  the  interference  of  any  insolent  member  of  the  inso- 
lent whole.  It  was  this  mixture  of  deep  love  and  profound  re- 
spect for  the  eternal  people,  and  of  calm,  passionless  disdain 
for-that  capricious  charlatan,  the  momentary  public,  which  made 
Ernest  Maltravers  an  original  and  solitary  thinker  ;  and  an  actor, 
in  reality  modest  and  benevolent,  in  appearance  arrogant  and 
Unsocial.  "Pauperism,  in  contradistinction  to  poverty,"  he  was 
wont  to  say,  "is  the  dependence  upon  other  people  for  existence, 
•notonouro\vTi  exertions;  there  is  a  moral  pauperism  in  the  man 
who  is  dependent  on  others  for'  that  support  of  moral  life — self- 
respect." 

Wrapped  in  this  philosophy,  he  pursues!  his  haughty  and  lone- 
some way,  and  felt  that  in  the  deep  heart  of  mankind,  when 
prejudices  and  envies  should  die  off,  there  would  be  a  Sympathy 
with  his  motives  and  his  career.  So  far  as  his  own  health  was 
concerned,  the  experiment  had  answered.  No  mere  drudgery 
'Of  business — late  hours  and  dull  speeches — can  produce  the 
"dread  exhaustion  which  follows  the  efforts  of  the  soul  to  mount 
into  the  higher  air  of  severe  thought  or  intense  imagination. 
Those  laciilties  which '  had  been  overstrained  now  lay  fallow — 
*^and'tl«e  frame  rapidly  tegained  its  tone;  Of  private  comfort  and 


228  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

inspiration  Ernest  knew  but  little.  He  gradually  grew  estranged 
from  his  old  friend  Ferrers,  as  their  habits  became  opix)sed. 
Cleveland  lived  more  and  more  in  the  country,  and  was  toq  well 
satisfied  with  his  quondam  pupil's  course  of  life  and  progressive 
reputation  to  trouble  him  with  exhortation  or  advice.  Cesarini 
had  grown  a  literary  lion,  whose  genius  was  vehemently  lauded 
by  all  the  reviews,  on  the  same  principle  as  that  which  induces 
us  to  praise  foreign  singers  or  dead  men, — we  must  praise  some- 
thing, and  we  don't  like  to  praise  those  who  jostle  ourselves. 
Cesarini  had  therefore  grown  prodigiously  conceited — swore  that 
England  was  the  only  country  for  true  merit,  and  no  longer  con- 
cealed his  jealous  anger  at  the  wider  celebrity  of  Maltravers. 
Ernest  saw  him  squandering  away  his  substance,  and-prostitut- 
ing  his  talents  to  drawing-room'  trifles,  with  a  compassionate 
sigh.  He  sought  to  warn  him,  but  Cesarini  listened  to  him  with 
such  impatience  that  he  resigned  the  office  of  monitor.  He  wrote 
to  De  Montaigne,  who  succeeded  no  better.  Cesarini  was  bent 
on  playing  his  own  game.  And  to  one  game,  witliout  a  meta- 
phor, he  had  at  last  come.  His  craving  for  excitement  vented 
itself  at  Hazard,  and  his  remaining  guineas  melted  slowly  away. 
.,  But  De  Montaigne's  letters  to  Maltravers  consoled  him  for  the 
loss  of  less  congenial  friends.  The  Frenchman  was  now  an  erni- 
nent  and  celebrated  man  ;  and  his  appreciation  of  Maltravers 
was  sweeter  to  the  latter  than  would  have  been  the  huzzas  of 
crowds.  But, all  this  while,his  vanity  was  pleased  and  his  curiosity 
roused  by  the  continued  correspondence  of  his  unseen  Egeria. 
That  correspondence  (if  so  it  may  be  called,  being  aUon  one  side) 
had  now  gone  on  for  a  considerable  time,  and  he  was  still  wholly 
unable  to  discover  the  author  ;  its  tone  had.  of  late  altered — it  had 
.become  more  sad  and  subdued — it  spoke  of  the  hollowness  as  well 
as  the  rewards  of  fame  ;. and,  with  a  touch  of  true  womanly  sen- 
timent, often  hinted  more,  at  the  rapture  of  soothing  dejection 
than,  of  sharing:  triumph;  In  all  these  letters;  there  was  the  un- 
deniable evidence  of  high  intellect  and  deep  feeling:  they  ex- 
cited a. strong  and  keen  interest  m  Maltravers,  yet  the  interest 
was.  not  that  which  made  him  want  to  discover,  in  order  that  he 
might, love,  the  writer.  They  were  for  tlie  mo^t  part  top  full  of 
the  iron.y  and  bitterness  of  a  man's  sp'mt,  to  fascinate  one  who 
considered  that  gentleness  was,  the  essence  of  a  woman's  strength. 
7V////>^r  spoke  in  them,  no  less  than  mind  and  heart,  and  it  was 
inot  the  sort  of  temper  which  a  man  who  iQves  women  to  be  wo- 
manly could  admire.  .  !  :'  ..  ;  .  ;•■■.. 
-  "i  hear  you  often  spokervof '  (ran  tfn^  qfthesfr Strange  ^pis- 
■tlies)j  *'ftpd  I  am  almost,  equally:j^ngry  whether  fools  presume  to 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  2120 

praise  or  to  blame  you..  This  miserable  world  we  live  in,  how  I 
loathe  and  disdain  it! — yet  I  desire  you  to  serve  and  to  master 
it!  Weak  contradiction,  effeminate  paradox!  Oh!  rather  a  thou- 
sand times  that  you  would  fly  from  its  mean  temptations  and  poor 
rewards! — if  the  desert  were  your  dwelling-place  and  you  wished 
one  minister,  I  could  renounce  all — wealth,  flattery,  repute, 
womanhood — to  serve  you. 

'*  I  once  admired  you  for  your  genius.  My  disease  has  fast- 
ened on  me,  and  I  now  almost  worship  you  for  yourself.  I  have 
seen  you,  Ernest  Maltravers, — ^seen  you  often, — and  when  you 
never  suspected  that  these  eyes  were  on  you.  Now  that  1  have 
seen,  I  understand  you  better.  We  cannot  judge  men  by  their 
books  and  deeds.  Posterity  can  know  nothing  of  the  beings  of 
the  past.  A  thousand  books  never  written — a  thousand  deeds 
never  done — are  in  the  eyes  and  lips  of  the  few  greater  than  the 
herd.  In  that  cold,  abstracted  gaze,  that  pale  and  haughty  brow, 
I  read  disdain  of  obstacles,  which  is  worthy  of  one  who  is  con- 
fident of  the  goal.  But  my  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  I  survey 
you  ! — you  are  sad,  you  are  alone  !  If  failures  do  not  mortify 
you,  success  does  not  elevate.  Oh,  Maltravers,  I,  woman  as  I 
am,  and  living  in  a  narrow  circle,  I,  even  I,  know  at  last  that 
to  have  desires  nobler,  and  ends  more  august,  than  others,  is  but 
to  surrender  jyaking  life  to  morbid  and  melancholy  dreams. 

"  Go  more  into  the  world,  Maltravers — go  more  into  the  world, 
or  quit  it  altogether.  Your  enemies  must  be  met ;  they  accu- 
mulate, they  grow  strong — you  are  too  tranquil,  too  slow  in  your 
steps  towards  the  prize  which  should  be  yours,  to  satisfy  my  im- 
patience, to  satisfy  your  friends.  Be  less  refined  in  your  ambi- 
tion, that  you  may  be  more  immediately  useful.  .,  The  feet  of 
clay,  after  all,  are  the  swiftest  in  the  race.  Even  Lumley  Fer- 
rers will  outstrip  you  if  you  do  not  take  heed. 

**  Why  do  I  run  on  thus'!— you-^^you  love  a;nother,  yet  you  are 
not  less  the  ideal  that  I  could  love— ^if  I  everloved  any  6he.  You 
iove — and  yet — well — no  matter."  '  /  ~J":;*i'        •''   *''\f' 


ajO  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Well,  but  this  is  being  only  an  ofificial  nobleman.  No  matter,  'tis  still 
being  a  nobleman,  and  that's  his  aim." — Anonymous  Writer  of  il'j'i. 

' '  La  musique  est  le  seul  des  talens  qui  jouissent  de  lui-meme;  tous  les  autres 
veulent  des  temoins."* — Marmontel. 

"  Thus  the  slow  ox  would  gaudy  trappings  claim." — Horace. 

Mr.  Templeton  had  not  obtained  his  peerage,  and,  though 
he  had  met  with  no  direct  refusal,  nor  made  even  a  direct  ap- 
plication to  headquarters,  he  was  growing  sullen.  Hie  had  great 
parliamentary  influence,^not  close-borough,  illegitimate  influence, 
but  very  proper  orthodox  influence  of  character,  wealth,  and  so 
forth.  He  could  return  one  member  at  least  for  a  city — he  could 
almost  return  one  member  for  a  county,  and  in  three  boroughs 
any  activity  on  his  part  could  turn  the  scale  in  a  close  contest. 
The  ministers  were  strong,  but  still  they  could  not  afford  to  lose 
supporters  hitherto  zealous — the  example  of  desertion  is  con- 
tagious. .  In  the  town  which  Templeton  had  formerly  repre- 
sented, and  which  he  now  almost  commandedj  a  vacancy  sud- 
denly occurred — a  candidate  started  on  the  opposition  side  and 
commenced  a  canvass;  to  the  astonishment  and  panic  of  the  Sec- 
retary of  the  Treasury,  Templeton  put  forward  no  one,  and  his 
interest  remained  dormant.  Lord  Saxingham  hurried  to  Lumley. 

"Mydearfellow,  what  is  this? — what  can  your  uncle  be  about? 
We  shall  lose  this  place — one  of  our  strongholds.  Bets  run  even." 

"Why,  you  see,  you  have  all  behaved  very  ill  to  my  uncle — I 
am  really  sorry  for  it,  but  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  What,  this  confounded  peerage !  Will  that  content  him  and' 
nothing  short  of  it?" 

"Nothing." 

"He  must  have  it,  by  Jove  ?" 

"  And  even  that  may  come  too  late." 

"Ha  !  do  you  think  so?" 

"Will  you  leave  the  matter  to  me?" 

"Certainly — you  are  a  monstrous,  clever  fellow,  and  we  all 
esteem  you.". 

"Sit  down  and  write  as  I  dictate,  iny  dear. lord." 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  seating  himself  at  Lumley's 
enormous  writing-table — "  well,  go  on," 

"  My  dear  Afr.  Templeton — " 

"Too  familiar,"  said  Lord  Saxingham. 

♦  Music  is  the  sole  talent  which  gives  pleasure  of  itself  ;  all  the  others  require  witnesses. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  23 1 

"Not  a  bit;  go  on." 

"  J/y  <kar  Mr.  Templeton  ; 

"  We  are  anxious  to  secure  your  parliamentary  influence  in 

C to  the  proper  quarter,  namely  to  your  own  family,  as  the 

best  defenders  of  the  administration,  which  you  honor  by  your  sup- 
port. We  wish  signally,  at  the  same  time,  to  express  our  confidence 
in  your  principles,  and  our  gratitude  for  your  countenance." 

"  D — d  sour  countenance  ! "  muttered  Lord  Saxingham. 

''''Accordingly,"  continued  Ferrers,  ''^ as  one  whose  connection 
with  you  permits  the  liberty,  allow  me  to  request  that  you  will  suffer 
our  joint  relation,  Mr.  Ferrers,  to  be  put  into  immediate  nomination." 

Lord  Saxingham  threw  down  the  pen  and  laughed  for  two 
minutes  without  ceasing.  "  Capital,  Lumley,  capital ! — Very 
odd  I  did  not  think  of  it  before." 

"  Each  man  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all,"  returned  Lumley, 
gravely  :  "pray  go  on,  my  dear  lord." 

"  We  are  sure  you  could  not  have  a  representative  that  would 
more  faithfully  reflect  your  own  opinions  and  our  interests.  One 
word  more.  A  creation  of  peers  will  probably  take  place  in  the 
spring,  among  which  I  am  sure  your  name  would  be  to  his  Majesty 
a  gratifying  addition;  the  title  will  of  course  be  secured  to  your 
sons — and,  failing  the  latter,  to  your  nephew. 

"  With  great  regard  and  respect, 
"  Truly  yourSy 

"Saxingham.' 

"There,  inscribe  that  'Private  and  confidential,'  and  send  it 
express  to  my  uncle's  villa." 

"It  shall  be  done,  my  dear  Lumley — and  this  contents  me  as 
much  as  it  does  you.  You  are  really  a  man  to  do  us  credit. 
You  think  it  will  be  arranged?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it." 

"  Well,  good-day.  Lumley,  come  to  me  when  all  is  settled  : 
Florence  is  always  glad  to  see  you  ;  she  says  no  one  amuses  her 
more.  And  I  am  sure  that  is  rare  praise,  for  she  is  a  strange 
girl, — quite  a  Timon  in  petticoats." 

Away  went  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  Florence  glad  to  see  me  !  "  said  Lumley,  throwing  his  hands 
behind  him  and  striding  to  and  fro  the  room — "  Scheme  the 
Second  begins  to  smile  upon  me  behind  the  advancing  shadow 
of  Scheme  One.  If  I  can  but  succeed  in  keeping  away  other 
suitors  from  my  fair  cousin  until  I  am  in  a  condition  to  propose 
myself,  why  I  may  carry  off  the  greatest  match  of  the  three 
kingdoms.     Courage,  mon  brave  Ferrers,  courage  !  " 


2.32  ERNEST    MAETRAVERS. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Ferrers  arrived  af  his  uncle's 
villa.  He  found  Mrs.  Templeton  in  the  drawing-room  seated 
at  the  piano.  He  entered  gently  ;  she  did  not  hear -him,  and 
continued  at  the  instrument.  Her  voice  was  so  sweet  and  richj 
her  taste  so  pure,  that  Ferrers,  who  was  a  good  judge  of  music, 
stood  in  delighted  surprise.  Often  aS'  he  had  been  a  visitor; 
even  an  inmate,  at  the  house,  he  had  never  before  heard  Mrs. 
Templeton  play  any  but  sacred  airs,  and  this  was  one  of  the 
popular  songs  of  sentiment.  He  perceived  that  her  feeliiog  at 
last  overpowered  her  voice,  and  she  paused  abruptly,  and,  turn*: 
ihg  around,  her  face  was  so  eloquent  of  emotion,  that  Ferrere^ 
was  forcibly  struck  by  its  expression..  He  was  not  a  man  apt 
to  feel  curiosity  for  anything  not  immediately  concerning  him*; 
self ;  but  he  did  feel  curious  concerning  this  melancholy  arid' 
beautiful  woman.  There: was  in  her  usual  aspect,  that  inex- 
pressible look  of  profound  resignation-,  which  betokens  a  lasting. 
remembrance  of  a  bitter  past ;  a  prematurely  blighted  heart 
spoke  in  her  eyes,  her -smile,  her  languid  and  joj'Iess  Step.  But 
she  performed  the  routine  of  her  quiet  duties  with  a  calm  and. 
conscientious  regularity  which  showed  that  grief  rather  depressed 
than  disturbed  her  thoughts.  If  her  burden  was  heavy,  custoiii 
seemed  to  have  reconciled  her  to  bear  it  without  repining  ;  and 
the  emotion  which  Ferrers  nowtracedin  her  soft  and  harmonious 
features  was  of  a  nature  he  had  only  once  witnessed  before — 
viz.,  on  the  first  night  he  had  seen  her,  Avhen  poetry,  which  is 
the  key  of  memory,  had  evidently  opened  a  chamber  haunted 
by  mournful  aiid  troubled  ghosts.  <     v  .  ■.       .  : 

"Ah!  dear  madam,"  said  Ferrers,  advan<nng,  as  he 'ioimd 
himself  discovered,  "I  trust  I  do  not  disturb  ydu.)u  Myivi^t  is 
unseasonable;  but  my  uncle — where  is  he?"'   ;ri   ■-  1,  <;■    ,'■  .  ;,:r 

"He  has  been  in  town  all  the  morning.;  he  Said  bfer'showld 
dine  out,  and  I  now  expect  him  every  minute."'     ■>  •        ••■.    ' 

"You  have  been  endeavoring  to  charm  away  the  sense  of  his 
absence.  Dare  I  ask  you  to  continue' to  play? :  It  is  seidonv 
that  I  hear  a  voice  so  sweet,  and  skill  so .  conmirrimat^.  Youi 
must  have  been  instructed  by  the  best. Italian  masters.?'         i:  l; 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  with  a  very  slight  color/ in  her 
delicate  cheek — "X  learned  young,  and  of  one  iiviio  lo\^  mMsic 
and  felt  it ;  but  who  was  not  a  foreigner."  !ni-ri'.i   ••   iH'u; 

"Will  you  sing  me  that  song  again  ? — you  give  the^words  a- 
beauty  I  never  before  discovered  in  them  ;  yet  they  (as  well  as 
the  music  itself)  are  by  my  poor  friend,  ■whom  Mr,  d^empleton 
does  not  like — Maltravers."  .v  '    '     ^  -      •    vi  • 

"Are  they  his  also ? "«aid  Mrs.  Templeton,  with  emotion'; 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  2^,2^ 

"it  is  strange  I  did  not  know, it,  I  heard  the  air  in  the  streets, 
and  it  struck  nie  much.  I  inquired  the  name  of  the  song  and 
bought  it: — it  is  very  strange  !  " 

"  What  is  strange  ?  " 

"That  there  is  a  kjnd  pf  language  in  your- friend's  music  and 
poetry  >vhich  comes  home  to  me,  like  words  I  have  heard  years 
ago      Is  he  young,  this  Mr.  Maltravers?" 

'^  Ves,  Ite  is  still, ypung."  ;,  ,       ,    ;,    ,    ,_   ,. 

''And,  and— "3  u..     fl^-.  .;1.5  jJgu^.a    jai  o^- 

Here  Mrs.  Tempfletoniwas  interrttpted  by  the  entrance  of  her 
liusband.  iHe  held  the  letter  from  Lord  Saxingham— it  was 
yet  unopened.  He  seemed  moody  ;  but  that  was  common  with 
hinii  He  coldly  shook  hands  with  Lumley,  nodded  to  his  wife, 
found  fault  with  the  fire,  and  throwing  himself  into  his  easy- 
chair,  said,  "So,  Lumley,  I  think  I  was  a  fool  for  taking  your 
advice — and  hanging  back  about  this  new  election. .  I  see  by 
the  evening  papers  that  there  is  shortly  to'be  a  creation  of  peers. 
■If  I  ha'd  shown  activity  on  behalf  of  the  goV:emm.eni^  I^pight 
have  shamed  tliem  into  gratitude."  •    :;■     . 

"I  think  I  was  right,  sir,"  replied  Lumley  ;  "public  men  are 
often-;  alarmed  into  gratitude,  seldom  shamed  into  it.  Firm 
votes,  like  old  friends,  are  most  valued  when  wC:  think 'we  are 
about  to  Jose  thena  ;  but  what  is  that  letter;^».-yqu^,ljac^4?r 

" Oh,  some  begging  petition,  I  suppose," i,ra    J  loyui  -^Idu..  • 

"Pardon  me — it  has  an  official  look."   '  : . 

Templeton  put  on  his  spectacles,  raised  thie  letter,  exanained 
the  address  and  seal,  hastily  opened  ijt,, and  broke  into  an  excla- 
mation very  jmuch  like  an  oath;  when  he,  had  concluded — 
"  Give  me  your  hand,  nephew — the  thing  is  settled — I  am  to 
have  the  peerage.-  You  were  right — ha,  ha  !r— my  dear  wife, 
you  will  be  my  lady,  think  of  that — aren't  you  glad?— why  don't 
your  ladyship  smile  ?     Where's  tlie  child — :\yhere  is  she,  I  say.^" 

"Gone  to  bed,  sir,"  said  Mrs;.  Templeton,  half-frightened.  .^ 

_  ,  "Gone  to  bed  f    I  must  go  and  kiss  her.     Gone  to  bed,  has 

[§he  ?;    Light  that  candle,  Lumley."    {Here  Mr.Templeton,^  rang 

jjhe,  bell.]     "  John,"  said  he,  as  the  servant  entered,— "  John, 

ffjell  James  to  go  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to  Baxter's,  and 

tell  him  not  to.  paint. naj  chariot  till  He.jiea.rstfifQl^'^^^r^:  l^..^*i.^,^ 

go  kiss  the  child — Lmust,  really."  ,.,x-  ■.,;  [■■■oh  /.rr  yvf,ft  f    •■•- 

I    "P^ — the  <;hild,"mutterred  Lumley'as,  after  giving  the  candle 

^0  his  uncle,  h«  turned  to  the  fire  ;  "what  the  deuce  has  she  got 

:todo  with  the  matter  ?     Charming  little  girl — yours,  madaat-* 

how  I  lovelier  J  ,  My  uncle  dotes  on  her— no  wonder  !"        .f 

"Jie  is,  indeed^  .yery^.  very  fpnd  of  her,"  said  MfSt  Temple* 


334  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

ton,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  her 
heart, 

"  Did  he  take  a  fancy  to  her  before  you  were  married  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  believe — oh  yes,  certainly." 

"  Her  own  father  could  not  be  more  fond  of  her." 

Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  answer,  but  lighted  her  candle,  and, 
wishing  Lumley  good-night,  glided  from  the  room. 

"  I  wonder  if  my  grave  aunt  and  my  grave  uncle  took  a  bite 
at  the  apple  before  they  bought  the  right  of  the  tree.  It  looks 
suspicious ;  yet  no,  it  can't  be  ;  there  is  nothing  of  the  seducer 
or  the  seductive  about  the  old  fellow.  It  is  not  likely — here 
he  comes." 

In  came  Templeton,  and  his  eyes  were  moist^  and  his  brow 
relaxed. 

"And  how  is  the  little  angel,  sir?"  asked  Ferrers. 

"  She  kissed  me,  though  I  woke  her  up ;  children  are  usually 
cross  when  wakened." 

"  Are  they  ? — little  dears  !  Well,  sir,  so  I  was  right,  then  ;  may 
I  see  the  letter  ? " 

"There  it  is." 

Ferrers  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  read  his  own  produc- 
tion with  all  the  satisfaction   of  an  anonymous  author. 

"  How  kind  ! — -how  considerate  !-— how  delicately  put ! — a 
double  favor !  But  perhaps,  after  all,  it  does  not  express  your 
wishes." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Why, — why,  about  myself." 

*^  You  .'—is  there  anything  about  j**?*  in  it  1—1  did  not  observe 
that — let  me  see." 

"Uncles  never  selfish! — mem,  for  commonplace-book!" 
thought  Ferrers. 

The  uncle  knit  his  brows  as  he  re-perused  the  letter.  "  This 
won't  do,  Lumley,"  said  he  very  shortly,  when  he  had  done. 

"  A  seat  in  Parliament  is  too  much  honor  for  a  poor  nephew, 
then,  sir !  "  said  Lumley,  very  bitterly,  though  he  did  not  feel 
at  all  bitter;  but  it  was  the  proper  tone — "I  have  done  all  in 
my  power  to  advance  your  ambition,  and  you  will  not  even  lend 
a  hand  to  forward  me  one  step  in  my  career.  But  forgive  me, 
sir,  I  have  no  right  to  expect  it." 

"Lumley,"  replied  Templeton  kindly,  "you  mistake  me.  I 
think  much  more  highly  of  you  than  I  did — much  ;  there  is  a 
steadiness,  a  sobriety  about  you   most  praiseworthy,  and  you 

shall  go  into  Parliament  if  you  wish  it  ;  but  not  for  C .     I 

will  give  my  interest  there  Xq  some  other  friend  of  the  govern- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  235 

ment,  and   in  return  they  can  give  you  a  treasury   borough  ! 
That  is  the  same  thing  to  you," 

Lumleywas  agreeably  surprised — he  pressed  his  uncle's  hand 
warmly,  and  thanked  him  cordially;  Mr.  Templeton  proceeded 
to  explain  to  him  that  it  was  inconvenient  and  expensive  sitting 
for  places  where  one's  family  was  known,  and  Lumley  fully 
subscribed  to  all. 

"As  for  the  settlement  of  the  peerage,  that  is  all  right,"  said 
Templeton  ;  and  then  he  sunk  into  a  reverie,  from  which  he  broke 
joyously — "yes,  that  is  all  right.  I  have  projects,  objects — this 
may  unite  them  all — nothing  can  be  better — you  will  be  the 
.  ^extlord — what — I  say,  what  .title  shall  we  have?" 
,  "Oh,  take  a  sounding  one — you  have  very  little  landed  ptop- 
perty,  I  think?" 

"Two  thousand  a  year  in shire,  bought  a. bargain." 

"What's  the  name  of  the  place?" 

"Grubley." 

"Lord  Grubley! — Baron  Grubley  of  Grubley — atroGious  ! 
Who  had  the  place  before  you  ?"  , 

"Bought  it  pf  Mr.  Sheepshanks — very  old  family." 

"  But  surely  sonie  old  Norman  once  had  the  place  ? " 

"Norman,  yesl  Henry  the  Second  gave  it  to  his  barber — 
Bertram  Courval." 

"That's  it^that's.  it— Lord  de  Courval— singular  coinci- 
dence ! — descent  from  the  old  line.  Heralds'  College  soon  settle 
all  that.  Lord  de  Courval ! — nothing  can  sound  better.  There 
musbbe  a  village  or  hamlet  still  called  Courval  about  the  property." 

"I  am  afraid  not.     There  is  Coddle  End  !  " 

"Coddle  End  ! — Coddle  End  ! — the  very  thing,  sir — the  very 
thing — clear  corruption  from  Courval ! — Lord  de  Courval  of 
Courval!     Superb!     Ha!  haL" 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  laughed  Templeton,  and  he.had  h^ardly  laughed 
before  since  he  was  thirty. 

The  relations  sate  long  and  conversed  familiarly.  Ferrers  slept 
at  the  villa,  and  his  sleep  was  sound,  for  he  thought  little  of 
plans  once  formed  and  half-executed  ;  it  was  the  hunt  that  kept 
him  awake,  and  he  slept  like  a  hound  when  the  prey  was  down. 
Not  so  Templeton,  who  did  not  close  his  eyes  all  night.  "Yes, 
yes,"  thought  he,  "I  must  get  the  fortune  and  the  title  in  one 
line,  by  a  prudent  management.  Ferrers  deserves  what  I  mean 
to  do  for  him.  Steady,  good-natured,  frank,  and  will  get  on — 
yes,  yes,  I  see  it  all.  Meanwhile  I  did  well  to  prevent  his  stand- 
ing for  C ;  might  pick  up   gossip  about  Mrs.  T.,  and  other 

things  that  might  be  unpleasant.     Ah,  I'm  a  shrewd  fellow!" 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  III. 


"  Lauzun. — There,  Marquis,  there,  I've  done  it. 

Montespan. — Done  it !  yes  !     Nice  doings  !  " 

The  Dtuluss  de  la  Vallikrt, 

LuMLEY  hastened  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot.  The  next 
morning  he  went  straight  to  the  Treasury — saw  the  managing 
secretary,  a  clever,  sharp  man,  who,  like  Ferrers,  carried  off 
intrigue  and  manoeuvre  by  a  blunt,  careless,  bluff  manner. 

Ferrers  announced  that  he  was  to  stand  for  the  free,  respect- 
able, open  city  of  C ,  with  an  electoral  population  of  2,500 — 

a  very  showy  place  it  was  for  a  member  in  the  old  ante-reform' 
times,  and  was  considered  a  thoroughly  independent  borough. 
The  secretary  congratulated  and  complimented  him. 

"  We  have  had  losses  lately  in  Qur  elections  among  the  larger 
constituencies,"  said  Lumley.  '  ' 

"  We  have  indeed — three  towns  lost  in  the  last  six  months. 
Members  do  die  so  very  unseasonably." 

"Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for?"  asked  Lumley.  Now 
Lord  Staunch  was  one  of  the  popular  show-fight  great  guns  of 
the  administration — not  in  office,  but  that  most  useful  person  to 
all  governments,  an  out-and-out  supporter  upon  the  most  inde- 
pendent principles — who  was  known  to  have  refused  place,  and 
to  value  himself  on  independence — ^^a  than  who  helped  the  govern- 
ment over  the  stile  when  it  was  seized  with  a  temporary  lameness, 
and  who  carried  "great  weight  with  him  in  the  country."  Lord 
Staunch  had  foolishly  thrown  up  a  close  borough  in  order  to 
contest  a  large  city,  and  had  failed  in  the  attempt.  His  failure 
was  everywhere  cited  as  a  proof  of  the  growing  unpopularity 
of  ministers. 

"Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for?"  asked  Lumley. 

"Why,  he  must  have  his  old  seat — Three-Oaks.  Three-Oaks 
is  a  nice,  quiet  little  place  :  most  Respectable  constituency — all 
Staunch's  own  family."  V''-  '['\    '.   t,""      ~  ■   •- '      ^ 
\    "Just  the  thing  for  hira'j  yet,  "tis^a  pity  he'flid  not  wait  to 
stand  for  C ;  my  uncle's  interests  would  have  secured  him." 

"Ay,  I  thought  so  the  moment  C— — was  vacant.  However, 
it  is  too  late  now."  ''^  ^-:;;?-'-    .:'"^  '-"  ■'-'^^  .::•  •■:;.fmvn    ■     -^-z. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  iriumphif  Lord  Stailnch  Could  Show  that 
a  large  constituency  volunteered  to  elect  him  without  expense." 

"Without  expense! — Ah,  yes,  indeed! — It  would  prove  that 
purity  of  election  still  exists — that  British  institutions  are  stilJ 
upheld." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  237 

"It  might  be  done,  Mr. ." 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  you — " 

"  Were  to  stand — that  is  true — and  it  will  be  difficult  to 
manage  my  uncle;  but  he  loves  me  much — you  know  I  am  his; 
heir — I  believe  I  could  do  it;  that  is,  if  you  think  it  would  be 
a  very  great  advantage  to  the  party,  and  a  very  great  service  to 
the  government." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Ferrers,  it  would  indeed  be  both." 

*'  And  in  that  case  I  could  have  Three-Oaks." 

"  I  see— exactly  so  ;  but  to  give  up  so  respectable  a  seat — 
really  it  is  a  sacrifice." 

"  Say  no  more,  it  shall  be  done.  A  deputation  shall  wait  on 
Lord  Staunch  directly.     I  will   see  my  uncle,  and  a  despatch 

shall  be  sent  down  to  G-- to-night ;  at  least,  I  hope  so.     I 

must  not  be  too  confident.  My  uncle  is  an  old  man,  nobod3r^ 
but  myself  can  manage  him  ;  I'll  go  this  instant."  '    "i 

"  You  may  be  sure  your  kindness  will  be  duly  appreciated,-'^' 

Lumley  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  secretary  and  retired. 
The  secretary  was  not  **  humbugged,"  nor  did  Lumley  expect 
he  should  be.  But  the  secretary  noted  this  of  Lumley  Ferrers 
(and  that  gentleman's  object  was  gained),  that  Lumley  Ferrers 
was  a  man  who  looked  out  for  office,  and  if  he  did  tolerably 
well  in  Parliament,  that  Lumley  Ferrers  was  a  man  who  ought  to 
be  pushed. 

Very  shortly  afterwards  the  Gazette  announced  the  election 

of  Lord  Staunch  for  C ,  after  a  sharp  but  decisive  contest: 

The  ministerial  journals  rang  with  exulting  paeans;  the  oppo- 
sition ones  called  the  electors  of  C all  manner  of  hard  names, 

and  declared  that  Mr.  Stout,  Lord  Staunch's  opponent,  would 
petition;  which  he  never  did.  In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  Mr. 
Lumley  Ferrers  quietly  and  unobservedly  crept  into  the  repi)©*- 
sentation  of  Three-Oaks.  ,-:-; 

On  the  night  of  his  election  he  went  to  Lord  Saxingham'iS;* 
but  what  there  happened  deserves  another  chapter.  ': 


238  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Je  connois  des  princes  du  sang,  des  princes  etrangers,  des  grands  sig- 
neurs,  des  ministres  d'etat,  des  magistrats,  et  des  philosoplies  qui  fileroiertt 
pour  I'amour  de  vous.  En  pouvez-vous  demander  d'avantage?"* — Lettres 
de  Madame  de  Sdvign^. 

' '  Lindore.     I 1  believe  it  will  choke  me.     I'm  in  loV«l     *    *    * 

Now  hold  your  tongue.     Hold  your  tongue,  I  say. 
"  Dalner.     You  in  love!    Ha!  ha! 

"  Lind.     There,  he  laughs.  •. 

"•Dal.    No;  t  am  really  sorry  for  ]«)u." — German  Play  {False  £felic(uy). 

*  *  *  '^Whatigjiere?  ,,  ,     •  ■  -.      • 

./"  .  .."^  n:..    Y  Gol'^tl^T-rSHAKESPEARf:. , _  ^ ., 

It  happened  that  that  evening  Maltravers  had,  for  the  first 
time,  accepted  one  of  many  invitations  with  which  Lord  Sax* 
ingham  had  honored  him.  His  lordship  and  Maltravers  were 
of  different  political  parties,  nor  were  they  in  other  respects 
adapted  to  each  other.  Lord  Saxingham  was  a  clever  man  in 
his  way,  but  worldly  even  to  a  proverb  among  worldly  people. 
That  "man  was  born  to  walk  erect  and  look  upon  the  stars," 
is  an  eloquent  fallacy  that  Lord  Saxingham  might  suffice  to  dis- 
prove. He  seemed  born  to  walk  with  a  stoop;  and  if  he  ever  looked 
upon  any  stars,  they  were  those  which  go  with  a  garter.  Though 
of  celebrated  and  historical  ancestry,  great  rank,  and  some  per- 
sonal reputation,  he  had  all  the  ambition  o{  a. parvefiu.  He  had 
a  strong  regard  for  office;  not  so  much  froin  the  sublime  affection 
for  that  sublime  thing — power  over  the  destinies  of  a  glorious 
nation,  as  because  it  added  to  that  vulgar  thing — importance 
in  his  own  set.  He  looked  on  his  cabinet  uniform  as  a  beadle 
looks  on  his  gold  lace.  He  also  liked  patronage,  secured  good, 
things  to  distant  connections  got  on  his  family  to  the  remotesU 
degree  of  relationship;  in  short,  he  was  of  the  earth,  earthy.  He 
did  not  comprehend  Maltravers  ;  and  Maltravers,  who  every  day 
grew  prouder  and  prouder^despised  him.  Still,  Lord  Saxingham: 
was  told  Maltravers  was  a  rising  man,  and  he  thought  it  well  to 
be  civil  to  rising  men,  of  whatever  party  ;  besides,  his  vanity 
was  flattered  by  having  men  who  are  talked  of  in  his  train.  He 
was  too  busy  and  too  great  a  personage  to  think  Maltravers 
could  be  other  than  sincere  when  he  declared  himself,  in  his 
notes,  "  very  sorry,"  or  "much  concerned,"  to  forego  the  honor 
of  dining  with  Lord  Saxingham  on  the,  etc.,  etc.;  and  therefore 
continued   his  invitations  till  Maltravers,    from    that    fatality 

*  I  know  princes  of  the  blood,  foreign  princes,  great  lords,  ministers  of  state,  magistrates, 
itnd  philosophers  who  would  even  spin  for  love  of  you.     What  can  you  ask  more  ? 


fiftMfiST  MALtRAVEkS.  i^Q 

which  undoubtedly  regulates  and  controls  us,  at  last  accepted 
the  proffered  distinction. 

He  arrived  late — most  of  the  guests  were  assembled;  and, 
after  exchanging  a  few  words  with  his  host,  Ernest  fell  back 
into  the  general  group,  and  found  himself  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  -  This  lady  had 
never  much  pleased  Maltravers,  for  he  was  not  fond  of  mascu- 
line or  coquettish  heroines,  and  Lady  Florence  seemed  to  him 
to  merit  both  epithets;  therefore,  though  he  had  met  her  often 
since  the  first  day  he  had  been  introduced  to  her,  he  had  usually 
contented  himself  with  a  distant  bow  or  a  passing  salutation. 
But  now,  as  he  turned  round  and  saw  her — she  was,  for  a 
miracle,  sitting  alone — and  in  her  most  dazzling  and  noble  coun- 
tenance there  was  so  evident  an  appearance  of  ill  health  that 
he  was  struck  and  touched  by  it.  In  fact,  beautiful  as  she  was, 
both  in  face  and  form,  there  was  something  in  the  eye  and  the 
bloom  of  Lady  Florence  which  a  skilful  physician  would  have 
seen  with  prophetic  pain.  And,  whenever  occasional  illness 
paled  the  roses  of  the  cheek,  and  sobered  the  play  of  the  lips, 
even  an  ordinary  observer  would  have  thought  of  the  old  com- 
monplace proverb — "  that  the  brightest  beauty  has  the  briefest 
life."  It  was  some  sentiment  of  this  kind,  perhaps,  that  now 
awakened  the  sympathy  of  Maltravers.  He  addressed  herwiili 
more  marked  courtesy  than  usual,  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  You  have  been  to  the  House,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Maltravers  ?  *' 
said  Lady  Florence. 

"Yes,  for  a  short  time;  it  is  not  one  of  our  field-nights — no 
division  was  expected;  and  by  this  time,  I  dare  say,  the  House 
has  been  counted  out." 

"Do  you  like  the  life?" 

"  It  has  excitement,"  said  Maltravers,  evasively. 

"  And  the  excitement  is  of  a  noble  character." 

"  Scarcely  so,  1  fear — it  is  so  made  up  of  mean  and  malig- 
nant motives, — there  is  in  it  so  much  jealousy  of  our  friends, 
so  much  unfairness  to  our  enemies;  such  readiness  to  attribute 
to  others  the  basest  objects,  such  willingness  to  avail  ourselves 
of  the  poorest  stratagems  1  The  ends  may  be  great,  but  the 
means  are  very  ambiguous." 

"  I  knewj'^«  would  feel  this,"  exclaimed  Lady  Florence,  with 
a  heightened  color.  : 

"  Did  you  ?  "said  Maltravers,  rather  interested  as  welPas  sutt 
prised.  "  I  scarcely  imagined  it  possible  that  you  would  deign 
to  divine  secrets  so  insignificant." 

"You  did  not  dome  justice,  then,"  returned  Lady  Floreiice> 


24^  fekNEST   MALTRAVEfel 

with  an  arch  yet  half-painful  smile;  "  for — ^but  I  wis. about  to 
be  impertinent."  '    nc-  j!.-   .«    ■; m 

"  Nay,  say  oti."  ^    •■'   -        -  '    '"  -• 

"  For — then — I  do  not  imagihe/youto  be  one  apt  to  do^in- 
justice  to  yourself."  -''-   '•        ,-';-''-'      >;-    ^'''-  '^'"'t 

"  Oh  !  you  consider  me  pfe^Urtiptrtoui  an'd  afrdgdT\t;f  bti'Hfiat 
is  common  report,  and  you  do  right,  perhaps,  to  believe  it;**';' 

"  Was  there  ever  any  one  unconscious  'bfliis  own  merit?*' 
asked  Lady  Florence  proudly.  "They  whd  distrust themselvfeis 
have  good  reason  for  it."        ■    ^      ' 

"You  seek  to  cure  the  wourid  jrod  itrflicted," i-eturried  M^t- 
travers,  smiling.  '     ''      '     -  '■     ;  '    .     '.' 

"No;  what  I  said  waS' An  apology  fbr  myselff  ai^  Wfell  as'^fot 
you.  You  need  no'  wbrds  to  vindicate  yoU ;  you'Hfe  a  mart, 
and  can  bear  out  all  arrogance  with  the  rdyal  motto— ^Z>/<?//  etmon 
droit.  With  you  deeds  can  support  pret^hsibiji ;  btit 't  aiii"'a 
woman — it  was  a  mistakfe  of  Nature!"  .:;.»    to  r.fv -.tu 

"But  what  triumphs  that  man  can  achieve  bring  so  immediate, 
so  palpable  a  reward  as'  those  wtjn'by  a  woman,  beautiful  and 
admired — who  finds  e^fery  rooin  an  empire,  and  eV&rV  <^fes'Shfei: 
subjects?"  '••■    ■•  "■'■      -••"■•■'•     i    ■^j.Mi'-i'.'i 

"  It  is  a  despicable  realm."  '  '.:'  -^^-^nw^.  <■  ..  Jl      '.^ni 

"  What! — to  command — to  win— to'  bto^^'fcl'^o^r  wOTsT^fji^ 
the  greatest,  and  the  highest,  and  the^terhest;  to  own  slaves 
in  those  whom  men  recognize  as  their 'lords  !  Iis'^such  pqwer 
despicable?     If  so,  what  power  is  to  be  envied?"     "•''    •  •■  '- 

Lady  Florence  turned  quickly  round  to  Maltravers,  and  fixed 
on  him  her  large  dark  ^es;  as  if  she  would  read  into  his  very 
heart.  She  turned  away  with  a  blush  and  slight  frp'wn—-"Tl>ere 
is  mockery  on  your  lip,"  said  she.  ^    '    "'^  ''*' 

Before  Maltravers  "could 'artswer,  dinner  was  announced,  and 
a  foreign  ambassador  claimed  the  hand  of  Lady  Florence. 
Maltravers  saw  a  young  lady;  with  gold  oats  in' her  very  light 
hair,  fall  to  his  lot,  and  descended  to  the  dining-room,  thinking 
more  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

He  happened  to  sit  nearly  opposite  the  youn^ mistress  of  the 
house  (Lord  Saxingham;  as  the  reader  knows,  was  a'-^vidbwet^ 
and  Lady  Florence  was  an  only  child);  ilrid  Maltravers  waS 
that  day  in  oneof  those  felicitous  moods- in  ^Vh'ich  our  animal 
spirits  search  and  carry  up,  as  it  were,  to  the  surface,  our  intel- 
lectual gifts  arid  acquisitions.  He  conversed  generally  and 
happily;  but  once,  when  he  turned  Ivisfeyes  to  appeal  to  Lady 
Florence  for  her  opinion  on  some  point  in  discussion,  he  caught 
lier  gaze  fixed  upon  him  with  an  Expression  that'  checked  the 


fiRNESt  MALtRAVEfeS.  24I 

current  of  his  gayety,  and  cast  him  into  a  curious  and  bewil- 
dered reverie.  In  this  gaze  there  was  earnest  and  cordial 
admiration;  but  it  was  mixed  with  so  niuch  mournfulness  that 
the  admiration  lost  its  eloqitence,  and  he  who  noticed  it  was 
rather  saddened  than  flattered.         -    .  '^      ,:     i  :<■'.'-.    .:"•■ 

After  dinner,  wlien  Maltravers  sought  the  drawin'g-rlidrfis,  he 
found  tliem  filled  with  the  customary  mob  of  good  society.  In 
one  corner  he  discovered  Castruccib  Cesarini  playing  on  a 
guitar  slung  across  his  breast  with  a  blirfe  riband^  '  The  Itafia:n 
sang  well:  many  young  ladies  were  grouped  round  h!m,  amongst 
otheris  Florence  Lascelles.  Maltraversj  fond  as'he  was  of  music, 
looked  upon  Castruccio's  performance  as  a  disagreeable  exhi- 
bition. He  had  a  Quixotic  idea  of  the  dignity  of  talent;  arid 
though  himself  of.  a  musical  science  and  a  melody  of  voicd  that 
would  have  thrown  the  room  into  ecstacies,  he  would  as  soon 
have  turned  juggler  or  tumbler  for  polite  amusement;  as  con- 
tended for  the  bravos  of  a  drawing-room.  It  was  because  he 
\^as  one  of  the  proudest  men  in  the  world,  that  Maltravers  was 
one  of  the  least  vain.  He  did  not  care  a  rush  for  applause  in 
small  things.  But  Cesarini  would  have  summoned  the  whole 
world  to  see  him  play  at  push-piri.ifhethoughtheplayeditwell. 

"Beautiful!  divine!  charming!"  cried  the  young  ladies,  as 
Cesarini  ceased;  and  Maltravers  observed  that  Florence  praised 
moTe  earnestly  than  the  rest,  and  that  Cesarini's  dark  eyes 
sparkled,  arid  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  unwonted  brilliancy. 
Florence  turned  to  Maltravers,  and  the  Italian,  following  hdr 
eyes,  frow'ned  darkly.        ■  '        '■'• 

"  You  know  the  Signor  Cesarini,"  said  Florfertce,'' joining 
Maltravers.     "  He  is  an  interesting  and  gifted  person," 

"  Unquestionably.  I  grieve  to  see  him  wasting  his  talents 
upon  a  soil  that  may  yield  a' few  short-lived  flowers,  without 
one  useful  plant  or  productive  fruit."     '    '   ' 

"He  enjoys  the  passing  hour,  Mr.  Maltravers;  and  sometimes,, 
AVheri'  I  see  the  mortification^  that  await  sterner  labor,  I  think, 
he' is  right.'' ■  •      •  ^' ■    "^  ^^  ^.M.,.f>;^  :   ;j  •. .;  ^m.  Oi     :.  :-:;.f;;t  . 

■  "  Hush!  "said Maltravers;  "his-eye^-areotitis-^lieislistenrng' 
breathlessly  for  every  word  you  uttfer..  I  fear  that  you  have 
madie  an  unconscious  conquest  of  a  poet's  beart;  and  if  so,' be 
purchases  the  enjoyment'bf  the  passing  horir  at. a  fearful  price." 
"Nay,"  said  Lady  Florence  indifferently,  "he  is  one  of  those 
tO'whbrri  fancy  supplies  the  place  of  the  heart.  And  if  I  give 
him  an  inspiration,  it  will  bean  equal  luxury  to  hirn  whether  his 
lyre  be  strung  to  hope  or  disappoiritnrient.  The  sweetness  of  his 
verses  wHlcorapferisate^  to  him  for  any  bitterness  in  Actual  life." 


i4*  EkNESt    MaLTRAVErI 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  love,"  answered  Maltravers, — "love 
and  self-love;  the  wounds  of  the  last  are  often  most  incurable 
in  those  who  appear  least  vulnerable  to  the  first.  Ah,  Lady 
Florence,  were  1  privileged  to  play  the  monitor,  I  would  ven- 
ture on  one  warning,  however  much  it  might  offend  you." 

"  And  that  is — " 

"  To  forbear  coquetry." 

Maltravers  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  it  was  gravely — and  at  the 
same  time  he  moved  gently  away.  But  Lady  Florence  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm, 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  she,  very  softly,  and  with  a  kind  of 
faltering  in  her  tone,  *'  am  I  wrong  to  say  that  I  am  anxious  for 
your  good  opinion  ?  Do  not  judge  me  harshly.  I  am  soured, 
discontented,  unhappy.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  the  world. 
These  men  whom  I  see  around  me^-what  are  they  ?  the  mass  of 
them  unfeeling  and  silken  egotists — ill-judging,  ill-educated, 
well-dressed:  the  few  who  are  called  distinguished- — how  selfish 
in  their  ambition,  how  passionless  in  their  pursuits!  Am  I  to 
be  blamed  if  I  sometimes  exert  a  power  over  such  as  these, 
which  rather  proves  my  scorn  for  them  than  my  own  vanity.?" 

"  I  have  no  right  to  argue  with  you." 

"  Yes,  argue  with  me,  convince  me,  guide  me — Heaven  knmvs 
that,  impetuous  and  haughty  as  I  am,  I  need  a  guide," — and 
Lady  Florence's  eyes  swam  with  tears.  Ernest's  prejudices 
against  her  were  greatly  shaken:  he  was  even  somewhat  daz- 
zled by  her  beauty,  and  touched  by  her  unexpected  gentleness; 
but  still,  his  heart  was  not  assailed,  and  he  replied  almost  coldly, 
after  a  short  pause — 

"  Dear  Lady  Florence,  look  round  the  world — who  so  much 
to  be  envied  as  yourself  ?  What  sources  of  happiness  and  pride 
are  open  to  you!  Why,  then,  make  to  yourself  causes  of  dis- 
content?— why  be  scornful  of  those  who  cross  not  your  path? 
Why  not  look  with  charity  upon  God's  less  endowed  children, 
beneath  you  as  they  may  seem  ?  What  consolation  have  you  in 
hurting  the  hearts  or  the  vanities  of  others?  Do  you  raise  your- 
self even  in  your  own  estimation?  You  affect  to  be  above  your 
sex — yet  what  character  do  you  despise  more  in  women  than 
that  which  you  assume?  Semiramis  should  not  be  a  coquette. 
There  now,  I  have  offended  you — I  confess  I  am  very  rude." 

"  I  am  not  offended,"  said  Florence,  almost  struggling  with 
her  tears;  and  she  added  inly,  "Ah,  lam  too  happy!  " — There 
are  some  lips  from  which  even  the  proudest  women  love  to  hear 
the  censure  which  appears  to  disprove  indifference. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Lumley  Ferrers,  flushed  with  the  sue- 


ERNEST   MAI^TRAVERS,  24^ 

cess  of  his  schemes  and  pi:ojects,  entered  the  room;  and  his 
quick  eye  fell  upon  that  corner,  in  which  he  detected  what  ap- 
peared to  him  ^  very  alarming  flirtation  between  his  rich  cousin 
and  Ernest  Maltravers.  He  advanced  to  the  spot,  and,  with 
his  customary  frankness,  extended  his  hand  to  each. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  and  fair  cousin,  give  me  your  congratiilations 
and  ask  me  for. my  first  frank,  to  be  bound  up  in  a  collection  of 
autograplis  by  distinguished  senators — it  will. sell  high  one  of 
these  days.  .Your  most  obedient,  Mr.  MaUravers; — how  we 
shall  la.ugh  in  .our  sleeves  at  the  humbug  of  politics,  when  you 
and  I,  the  best  friends  in,  the  world,  sit  vjs-d-vi's  on  opposite 
benches,  ^ut  why,  Lady  Florence,  have  you  never  introduced 
me  to  your  pet  Italian?  Allons!  I  am  his  match  in  Alfieri,  whom, . 
of  course,  he  swears  by,  and  whose  verses,  by  the  way,  seem  cut 
out  of  boxwood — the  Ixaydest  rnaterial  for  turning  off  that  sort 
qf  machinery  that  invention. ever  hit  on." 

Thus  saying,  Ferrers  contrived,  as  he  thought,,  very  cleverly 
to  divide  a  pair  that  he  much  feared  were  justly  formed  to  meet 
by  nature,  and,  to  his  great  joy,  Maltravers  shorjtly  afterwards 
withdrew.  ,•';.,, r^  jy-/ 

FerrerSj  with  the  happy  ease  that  belonged  to  his  complacent 
though  plotting. character,  soon  made  Cesarini  at  home  with 
him;  and  two  or  three  slighting  expressions  which  the  former 
dropped  with  respect  to  Maltravers,  coupled  with  some  out- 
rageous compliments  to -the  Italian,  completely  won  the  heart 
of  the  poet.  The  brilliant  Florence  was  more  silent  and  sub- 
dued than, usual;  and  her  voice  was  softer,  though  graver,  when 
she  replied  to  Castruccio's  eloquent  appeals.  Castruccio  was 
one  of  those  men  who  /«//&  ^/?if.  By  degrees,  Lumley  lapsed 
into  silence,  and;  listened  to  what  took  place  between  Lady 
Florence  and  the  Italian,  while  appearing  to  be,  deep  in  "  The^ 
Views  of  the  Rhine,"  which  lay  on  the  table. 

.."Ah,"  said  the  latter,  iahis  soft  native  tongue,,  "could  you 
know  how  I  watch  every  shade  of  that  countenance  which 
malces  my  heaven!  Is  it  clouded,  night  is  with  me!— is  it  radi- 
ant, I  am  as  the  Persian  gazing  on  the  sun  ! " 

"Why  do  you  speak  thus  to  me?  were  you  not  a- poet,  I  might 
be  apgry."  ;,_,,..  ,,  ...        .   ;     .  _       .     .;   :     ;  .  ' 

"  You  weri^  not,angry  when  the  English  poety  that  cold  Mal- 
travers,. spoke  to  you  perhaps  as  boldly."  ,   [   .;,  ; 
.Lady   Florence  drew  up.  her  haughty  head.     "  Signor,"  said - 
she, — checking,  however,  her  first  impulse,  and  with  mildness,— - 
"Mr.  Majtravers-neither  flatters. nor^ — '.'   ,                           : / 

**  Presiiines,  you  were  about  t6  say,"  said  Cesarini,  grinding 


244  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS, 

his  teeth.  "  But  it  is  well — once  you  were  less  chilling  to  th« 
utterance  Of  my  deep  devotion." 

"Never,  Signor  Cesarini,  never  but  when  I  thought  it  was  but 
t'he  common  gallantry  of  your  nation;  let  me  think  so  still." 

"No,  proud  woman,"  said  Cesarini  fiercely,'*no,  hear  the  truth." 

Lady  Florence  rose  indignantly. 

"Hear  me,"  he  continued.  "I — I,  the  poor  foreigner,  the 
despised  minstrel,  dare  to  lift  up  my  eyes  to  you!     I  love  you!  " 

Never  had  Florence  Lascelles  been  so  humiliated  and  con- 
founded. However  she  might  have  amused  herself  with  the 
vanity  of  Cesarini,  she  had  not  given  him,  as  she  thought,  the 
warrant  to  address  her — the  great  Lady  Florence,  the  prize  of 
dukes  and  princes — in  this  hardy  manner;  she  almost  fancied 
him  insane.  But  the  next  moment  she  recalled  the  warning  of 
Maltravers,  and  fdt  as  if  her  punishment  had  commenced. 

"You  will  think  and  speak  more  calmly,  sir,  when  we  meet 
again,"  and  so  saying  she  swept  away, 

Cesarini  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  his  dark  counten- 
ance expressing  such  passions  as  are  rarely  seen  in  the  aspect 
of  civilized  men.  .    ? 

"Where  do  you  lodge,  Signor  Cesarini?"  askc'^^' the 'Bland, 
familiar  voice  of  Ferrers.  "Let  us  walk  part  of  the  way  to- 
gether— that  is,  when  you  are  tired  of  these  hot  rooms." 

Cesarini  groaned.  "You  are  ill,"  continued  Ferrers;  "the 
air  will  revive  you— come."  He  glided  from  the  room,  and  the 
Italian  mechanically  followed  him.  They  walked  together  for 
some  moments  in  silence,  side  by  side,  in  a  clear,  lovely,  moon- 
light night.  At  length  Ferrers  said:  "Pardon  me,  my  dear  Si- 
gnor, but  you  may  already  have  observed  that  I  am  a  very  frank, 
odd  sort  of  fellow.  I  see  5fou  are  caught  by  the  charms  of  my 
c^ruel  cousin.     Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way?" 

A  man  at  all  acquainted  with  the  world  in  which  we  live  would 
have  been  suspicious  of  such  cordiality  in  the  cousin  of  an 
heiress,  towards  a  very  unsuitable  aspirant.  '  But  Cesarini,  like 
many  indifferent  poets  (but  like  few  good  ones),  had  no  com- 
mon sense.  He  thought  it  quite  natural  that  a  man  who',  ad- 
mired his  poetry  so  much  as  Lumley  had  declared  he  did  should 
take  a  lively  interest  in  his  welfare ;  and  he  therefore  replied 
warmly,  "Oh,  ^r,  this  is  indeed  a  crushing  blow  :  I  dreamed  she 
loved  me.  She  was  ever  flattering  and  gentle  when  she  spoke 
to  me,  and  in  verse  already  I  had  told  her  of  my  love  and  met 
with  no  rebuke.  •' 

"  Did  your  verses  really  arid  plainly  declare  love,  and  in  your 
own  person?"  .i-  63- ^«<kc.     ^.v 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  245 

*■  Why,  the  sentiment  was  veiled,  perhaps — put  into  the  mouth 
of  a  fictitious  character,  or  conveyed  in  an  allegory." 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Ferrers,  thinking  it  very  likely  that  the 
gorgeous  Florence,  hymned  by  a  thousand  bards,  had  done  lit- 
tle more  than  cast  a  glance  over  the  lines  that  had  cost  poor 
Cesarini  such  anxious  toil,  and  inspired  him  with  such  daring 
hope.  "  Oh  ! — and  to-night  she  was  more  severe  ! — she  is  a  ter- 
rible coquette,  la  belle  Florence  I.  But  perhaps  you  have  a  rival." 

"  I  feel  it— I  saw  it— I  know  it." 

"Whom  do  you  suspect?" 

"  That  accursed  Maltravers !  He  crosses  me  in  every  path — 
my  spirit  quails  beneath  his  whenever  we  encounter,  I  read 
my  doom."  , 

"  If  it  be  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  gravely,  "  the  danger  can- 
not be  great.  Florence  has  seen  but  little  of  him,  and  he  does 
not  admire  her  much  ;  but  she  is  a  great  match,  and  he  is  am- 
bitious. We  must  guard  against  this  betimes,  Cesarini — for 
know  that  I  dislike  Maltravers  as  much  as  you  do,  and  will 
cheerfully  aid  you  in  any  plan  to  blight  his  hopes  in  that  quarter." 

"  Generous,  noble  friend! — yet  he  is  richer,  better  born  than  I." 

"That  may  be:  but  to  one  in  Lady  Florence's  position,  all 
minor  grades  of  rank  in  her  aspirants  seem  pretty  well  levelled. 
Come,  I  don't  tell  you  that  I  would  not  sooner  she  married  a 
countryman  and  her  equal — but  I  have  taken  a  liking  to  you,  and 
I  detest  Maltravers.  She  is  very  romantic — fond  of  poetry  to 
a  passion — writes  it  herself,  I  fancy.  Oh,  you'll  just  suit  her; 
but,  alas!  how  will  you  see  her?" 

"See  her!     What  mean  you?" 

"  Why,  have  you  not  declared  love  to-night  ?  I  thought  I  over- 
heard you.  Can  you  for  a  moment  fancy  that,  after  such  an 
avowal,  Lady  Florence  will  again  xeceiYe' you — that  is,  if  she 
mean  to  reject  your  suit?" 

"  Fool  that  I  was  !     But  no — she  must,  she  shall." 

"  Be  persuaded  :  in  this  country  violence  will  not  do.     Take 

-.my  advice,  write  an  humble  apology,  confess  your  fault,  invoke 

her  pity  ;  and,  declaring  that  you  renounce  forever  the  character 

of  a  lover,  implore  still  to  be  acknowledged  as  a  friend.    Be  quiet 

now, — hear  me  out;  I  am  older  than  you;  I  know  my  cousin;  this 

will  pique  her;  your  modesty  will  soothe,  while  your  coldness  will 

^^arouse  her  vanity.      Meanwhile  you  will  watch  the  progress  of 

^pJMaltravers, — I  will  be  by  your  elbow  ;  and  between  us,  to  use  a 

homely  phrase,  we  will  do  for  him.      Then  you  may  have  your 

opportunity, — ^^clear  stage  and  fair  play." 

Cesarini  was  at  first  rebellious ;  but  at  length  evep  he  saw 


246  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

the  policy  of  the  advice.  But  Lumley  would  not  leave  him  till 
the  advice  was  addpted.  He  made  Castruc'cio  acciorapany  hirh 
to  a  club,  dictated  the  letter  to  Florence,  and  uii^ertciok  its 
charge.     This  was  not  all.  ''       '  ■-'■ 

"  It  is  also  necessary,"  said  Lumley,  after  a  short  but  thought- 
ful silence,  "that  you  should  write  to  Maltravers.'" 

"And  for  what?"  ';''      '        r.   ;'-     •  /•   ■ 

"  I  have  my  reasons.  Ask'^hiin,  iri^a,  frank  and  friendly  spiric, 
his  opinion  of  Lady  Florence  ;  state  your  belief  that  she  loves 
you,  and  inquire  ingenuously  yvhat  he  thinks  your  chances  of 
happiness  in  such  a  union." ^       '''^.'f  ■;  '  •  ' 

"But  whythis?"  ■   :  v  c  ,1  ;       -,... 

"His  answer  may  be  useful,"  returned  Lumley,  musingly. 
"Stay,  I  will  dictate  the  letter."  ''[[.".'''.,'" 

Cesarihi  wondered  and  hesitated," btftiherfe  waSihat  about 
Lumley  Ferrers  which  had 'already  obtained  colnmancl  over  the 
.weak  and  passionate  poet.  He  wrote,  therefore,  as  Lumley  dic- 
tated, beginnitig  with  some  cornmonpkce  doubts  as  to  the  hap- 
piness of  marriage  in  general,  excusing  himself  for  his  recerit 
coldness  towards  Maltravers,  and  asking  him  his  confidential 
opinion  both  as  tb'Lady  Flbrence's  character  and  his  oWh  chances 
of  success.  '"'•  '  "'i',"' "'  J  .    , ''       ',',    ''\'^   "^  V '    ""V^ 

This  letter,  like  tfie  formei^bhe;  Lu  W^f  searedankl  de^patfihid. 

"You  perceive,"  he  then  said,  briefly,  to  Ce^arini,  " that  it  is 
the  objectof  this  letter  to  entrap  Maltravers  into  some  plain  and 
honest  avowal  of  his  dislike  'of  Lady  Florence: ;  ive  may  make 
good  use  of  such  expressions  hereafter,  if 'he.  should  ever  prove 
a  rival.  And  now  go.  home  to  rest;  you  look  ei^hausted.  Adieu, 
my  new  friend."  "'        '     '  •"        •     '•     .,••    • 

"T  have  long  had  a  |)resentiin^ht,'*'said  Ltiinlfey  to^^s' coun- 
sellor SELF,  as  he  walkfed  to  Great  George  Street,  "that  that  wild 
girl  has  conceived  a  romantic  fancy  for  Maltravers.  But  I  can 
easily  prevent  such  an  accident  ripening  into  misfortiine.  Mean- 
while, I  have  secured  a  tool,  if  I  want  one.  By  Jove,  what  an  ass 
that  poet  is  !  But  sO  was  Cassro  ;  yet  lago  made  use  of  him.  If 
lago  had  been  born  now,  and  dropped  that  foolish  fancy  for  re- 
venge, what  a  gloriousfellow'  he  would  have  beeh  !  Prime  min- 
ister at  least !"  >-.:■.  .'     . 

Pale,  haggard,  exhausted,  Caiti'uccio.CesaTini, "  traVeir^ng'  a 
length  of  way,  arrived  at  last  at  it tnisefaMe  lodging  in  the  subufb 
of  Chelsea.  His  fortune  was  now  gorie  ;  gone  in  sujDplpng  the 
poorest  food  to  a  craving  and  imbecile  vanity;  gone,  that  its 
owner  might  seem  what  Kature  never  meaiit  hfm  f6r,-^^the  ele- 
gant Lothario, -the  graceful'  m^h  of  plea'sure,'thd  troirbadour  ot 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  247 

modern  life ! — gone  in  horses,  and  jewels,  and  fine  clothes,  and 
gaming,  and  printing  unsalable  poems  on  gilt-edged  vellum  ; 
gone  that  he  might  be  not  a  greater  but  a  more  fashionable  man 
than  Ernest  Maltravers !  Such  is  the  common  destiny  of  those 
poor  adventurers  who  confine  fame  to  boudoirs  and  saloons.  No 
matter  whether  they  be  poets  or  dandies,  wealthy  parvenus  or 
aristocratic  cadets,  all  equally  prove  the  adage  that  the  wrong 
paths  to  reputation  are  strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  peace,  for- 
tune, happiness,  and  too  often  honor  !  And  yet  this  poor  young 
man  had  dared  to  hope  for  the  hand  of  Florence  Lascelles  !  He 
had  the  common  notion  of  foreigners,  that  English  girls  marry 
for  love,  are  very  romantic  ;  that,  within  the  three  seas,  heiresses 
are  as  plenty  as  blackberries  ;  and  for  the  rest,  his  vanity  had 
been  so  pampered  that  it  now  insinuated  itself  into  every  fibre 
of  his  intellectual  and  moral  system. 

Cesarini  looked  cautiously  round,  as  he  arrived  at  his  door : 
for  he  fancied  that,  even  in  that  obscure  place,  persons  might  be 
anxious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated  poet,  and  he  con- 
cealed his  residence  from  all ;  dined  on  a  roll  when  he  did  not 
dine  out,  and  left  his  address  at  "The  Travellers'."  He  looked 
round,  I  say,  and  he  did  observe  a  tall  figure,  wrapped  in  a  cloak, 
that  had,  indeed,  followed  him  from  a  distant  and  more  popu- 
lous part  of  the  town.  But  the  figure  turned  round,  and  van- 
ished instantly.  Cesarini  mounted  to  his  second  floor.  And 
about  the  middle  of  the  next  day  a  messenger  left  a  letter  at  his 
door,  containing  one  hundred  pounds  in  a  blank  envelope.  Ce- 
sarini knew  not  the  writing  of  the  address  ;  his  pride  was  deeply 
wounded.  Amidst  all  his  penury  he  had  not  even  applied  to  his 
own  sister.  Could  it  have  come  from  her — from  De  Montaigne  ? 
He  was  lost  in  conjecture.  He  put  the  remittance  aside  for  a 
few  days,  for  he  had  something  fine  in  him,  the  poor  poet! — but 
bills  grew  pressing  and  necessity  hath  no  law. 

Two  days  afterwards,  Cesarini  brought  to  Ferrers  the  answer 
he  had  received  from  Maltravers.  Lumley  had  rightly  foreseen 
that  the  high  spirit  of  Ernest  would  conceive  some  indignation 
at  the  coquetry  of  Florence  in  beguiling  the  Italian  into  hopes 
never  to  be  realized — that  he  would  express  himself  openly  and 
warmly.  He  did  so,  however,  with  more  gentleness  than  Luni- 
ley  had  anticipated. 

"This  is  not  exactly  the  thing,"  said  Ferrers,  after  twice  read- 
ing the  letter ;  "  still  it  may  hereafter  be  a  strong  card  in  our 
hands — we  will  keep  it." 

So  saying,  he  locked  up  the  letter  in  his  desk,  and  Cesarini 
soon  forgot  its  existence. 


448  ERNEST    MALTRAVKRS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight, 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ;  ..J 

A  lovely  apparition  sent,                            ;.       /  ■    ■    i 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament."— Wo rdswort;h.  .   ,. 

MALTRAVERSdidnot  see  Lady  Florence  again  for  some  weeks; 
meanwhile  Lumley  Ferrers  made  his ^^^/^/, in  parliarneht.  Ri- 
gidly adhering  to.his  plan  of  acting  on,  a  deliberate  system,  and 
not  prone  to  overrate  himself,  M,r.  Ferrers  did  not,  like  most 
])romising  new  members,  try  the  hazardous  ordeal  of  a  great 
first  speech.  Though  bold,  fluent,  and  ready,  he  was  not  elo- 
quent ;  and  he  knew  that  oii  great  occasions,  when  great  speeches 
are  wanted,  great  guns  like  to  have  the  fire  to  themselves.  Neither 
did  he  split  upon  the  oi)posite  i;ock,of  "promising  young  men," 
who  stick  to  "  the  business  of  the  hpuse  "  like  leeches,  and  quib- 
ble on  details ;  in  return  for  which.labor  they  are  generally  voted 
bores,  who  can  never  do  anything  remarkable.  But  he  : spoke 
frequently,  shortly,  courageously,  and  with  a  strong  dash  .of 
good-humored  personality^:  He  was  the  man  whom  a  ministei" 
could  get  to  say  something  which  other  people  did,  notHke  19 
say  ;  and  he  did  so  with  a  frank  fearlessness  that  carried  off  any 
seeming  violation  of  good  taste.  He  soon  became  a  very  popu- 
lar speaker  in  the  parliamentary  clique  ;  especially  with  Uie  gen- 
tlemen who  crowd  the  bar,  and  never  want  to  hear  the  argument 
of  the  debate.  Between  him  and  Maltravers  a  visible  coldness 
now  existed;  for  the  latter  looked  upon  his  old  friend  (whose 
principles  of  logic  led  him  even  to  republicanism,  and  who  had 
been  accustomed  to  accuse  Ernest  of  temporizing  with^plain 
truths,  if  he  demurred  to  their  application  to  artificial  states  of 
society)  as  a  cold-blooded  and  hypocritical  adventurer ;  wlule 
Ferrers,  seeing  that,  Ernest  could  now  be  of  no  furtheruse  to 
him,  was  willing  enough  to  drop  a  profitless  intimacy.  Nay,  he 
thought  it  would  be  wise  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him,,  if  possible, 
as  the  best  means  of  banishing  a  supposed  rival  from  the  house 
of  his  nqbjle  relation.  Lord  Saxingham.  But  no  opportunity  for 
that  step  presented  itself ;  so  Lumley  kept  a  fit  o^  convenient 
rudeness,  or  an  impromptu  sarcasm,  in  reserve,  if  ever  it  should 
be  wanted.    ,  ,.■     "    :  .,        •  ./     • 

The  season  and,  the  session. were  alike  drawing  to  a,  close, 
when  Maltravers  received  a  pressing  invitation  from  Cleveland 
to  spend  a  week  at  his,  villa,  which  he  assured  Ernest  would 
be  full  of  agreeable  people  ;  and  as  all  \)usjness  produ6ti>';e  9^ 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  249 

debate  or  division  was  over,  Maltravers' was  glad  to  obtain  fresh 
air  and  a  change  of  scene.  Accordingly,  he  sent  down  his 
luggage  and  favorite  books,  and,  one  afternoon  in  early  August, 
rode  alone  towards  Temple  Grove.  He  was  much  dissatisfied, 
perhaps  disappointed,  with  his  experience  of  public  life ;  and 
with  his  high-wrought  and  over-refining  views  of  the  deficiencies 
of  others  more  prominent,  he  was  in  a  humor  to  mingle  also 
censure  of  himself,  for  having  yielded  too  much  to  the  doubts 
and  scruples  that  often,  in  the  early  part  of  their  career,  beset 
the  honest  and  sincere  in  the  turbulent  whirl  of  politics,  and 
ever  tend  to  make  the  robust  hues  that  should  belong  to  action 

"  Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

His  mind  was  working  its  way  slowly  toward  those  conclusions 
which  sometimes  ripen  the  best  practical  men  out  of  the  most 
exalted  theorists,  and  perhaps  he  saw  before  hirn  the  pleasing 
prospect  flatteringly  exhibited  to  another,  when  he  complained 
of  being  too  honest  for  party, '  viz.y  "of  becoming  a  very  pretty 
rascal  in  time!"  ■■'''■         •  ■ 

For  several  weeks  he  had  not  heard  from  his  unknown  cor- 
respondent, and  the  time  was  come  when  he  missed  those  letters, 
now  continued  for  more  than  two  years;  and  which,in  their  elo- 
quent mixture  of  complaint,  exhortation,  despondent  gloom, 
and  declamatory  enthusiasm,  had  often  soothed  him  in  dejec- 
tion, and  made  him  more  sensible  of  triumph.  While  revolving 
in  his  mind  thoughts  connected  with  these  subjects — and, 
somehow  or  other,  with  his  more  ambitious  reveries  were  always 
mingled  musings  of  curiosity  respecting  his  corresponder/t — he 
was  struck  by  the  beauty  of  a  little  girl,  of  about  eleven  years 
old,  who  was  walking  with  a- female  attendant  on  the  footpath 
that  skirted  the  road.  1  said  that  he  was  struck  by  her  beauty, 
but  that  is  a  wrong  expression  ;  it  was  rather  the  charm  of  her 
countenance  than  the  perfection  of  her  features  which  arrested 
die  gaze  of  Maltravers — a  charm  that  might  not  have  existed 
for  others,  but  was  inexpressibly  attractive  to  him,  and  was  so 
much  apart  from  the  vulgar  fascination  of  mere  beauty,  that  it 
would  bave  equally  touched  a  chord  at  his  heart,  if  coupled  with 
homely  features  or  a  bloomless  cheek.  This  charm  was  in  a 
Wonderful  innocence  and  dove-like  softness  of  expression.  We 
all  form  to  ourselves  some  deau  id^l  of  the  *'  fair  spirit "  we 
desire  as  our  earthly  "minister,"  and  somewhat  capriciously 
gauge  and  proportion  our  admiration  of  living  shapes  according 
as  the  beau  id/al  is  more  or  less  embodied  or  approached. 
Beauty,  of  a  stamp  that  is  not  familiar  to  the  dreams  of  our 


250  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

fancy,  may  win  the  cold  homage  of  our  judgment,  while  a  look, 
a  feature,  a  something  that  realizes  and  calls  up  a  boyish  vision, 
and  assimilates  even  distantly  to  the  picture  we  wear  within  us, 
has  a  loveliness  peculiar  to  our  eyes,  and  kindles  an  emotion  that 
almost  seems  to  belong  to  memory.  It  is  this  which  the  Pla- 
tonists  felt  when  they  wildly  supposed  that  souls  attracted  to 
each  other  on  earth  had  been  united  in  an  earlier  being  and  a 
diviner  sphere  ;  and  there  was  in  the  young  face  on  which 
Ernest  gazed  precisely  this  ineffable  harmony  with  his  precon- 
ceived notions  of  the  Beautiful.  Many  a  nightly  and  noonday 
reverie  was  realized  in  those  mild  yet  smiling  eyes  of  the  darkest 
blue  ;  in  that  ingenuous  breadth  of  brow,  with  its  slightly  pencilled 
arches,  and  the  nose,  not  cut  in  that  sharp  and  clear  symmetry 
which  looks  so  lovely  in  marble,  but  usually  gives  to  flesh  and 
blood  a  decided  and  hard  character  that  better  becomes  the 
sterner  than  the  gentler  sex — no ;  not  moulded  in  the  pure 
Grecian,  nor  in  the  pure  Roman,  cast;  but  small,  delicate,  with 
the  least  possible  inclination  to  turn  upward,  that  was  only  to 
be  detected  in  one  position  of  the  head,  and  served  to  give  u 
prettier  archness  to  the  sweet,  flexile  lips,  which,  from  the 
gentleness  of  their  repose,  seemed  to  smile  unconsciously,  but 
rather  from  a  happy  constitutional  serenity  than  from  the  gid- 
diness of  mirth.  Such  was  the  character  of  this  fair  child's 
countenance,  on  which  Maltravers  turned  and  gazed  involun- 
tarily and  reverently,  with  something  of  the  admiring  delight 
with  which  we  look  upon  the  Virgin  of  a  Raffaelle  or  the  sunset 
landscape  of  a  Claude.  The  girl  did  not  appear  to  feel  any 
premature  coquetry  at  the  evident,  though  respectful,  admiration 
she  excited.  She  met  the  eyes  bent  upon  her,  brilliant  and 
eloquent  as  they  were,  with  a  fearless  and  unsuspecting  gaze, 
and  pointed  out  to  her  companion,  with  all  a  child's  quick  and  un- 
restraining  impulse,  the  shining  and  raven  gloss,  the  arched  and 
haughty  neck,  of  Ernest's  beautiful  Arabian. 

Now  there  happened  between  Maltravers  and  the  young 
object  of  his  admiration  a  little  adventure,  which  served,  per- 
haps, to  fix  in  her  recollection  this  short  encounter  with  a 
stranger ;  for  certain  it  is  that,  years  after,  she  did  remember 
both  the  circumstances  of  the  adventure  and  the  features  of 
Maltravers.  She  wore  one  of  those  large  straw  hats  which  look 
so  pretty  upon  children,  and  the  warmth  of  the  day  made  her 
untie  the  strings  which  confined  it.  A  gentle  breeze  arose,  as 
by  a  turn  in  the  road  the  country  became  more  open,  and  sud- 
denly wafted  the  hat  from  its  proper  post — almost  to  the  hoofs 
of  Ernest's  horse.     The  child  naturally  made  a  spring  forward 


ERNEST    MALTRAVER9.  25 1 

to  arrest  the  deserter,  and  her  foot  slipped  down  the  bank, 
which  was  rather  steeply  raised  above  the  road  ;  she  uttered  a 
low  cry  of  pain.  To  dismount — to  regain  the  prize — and  to 
restore  it  to  its  owner,  was,  with  Ernest,  the  work  of  a  moment ; 
the  poor  girl  had  twisted  her  ankle,  and  was  leaning  upon  her 
servant  for  support.  But  when  she  saw  the  anxiety,  and  almost 
the  alarm,  upon  the  stranger's  face  (and  her  exclamation  of 
pain  had  literally  thrilled  his  heart — so  much  and  so  unaccount- 
ably had  she  excited  his  interest),  she  made  an  effort  at  self- 
control,  not  common  at  her  years,  apd  with  a  forced  smile 
assured  him  she  was  not  much^hurt^ — that  it  was  nothing — that 
she  was  just  at  home.  .         . 

"  Oh,  miss  !  "  said  the  serYant,^ "I  am  sure  you  are  very  bad. 
Dear  heart,  how  angry  master  will  be  !  It  was  not  my  fault ; 
was  it,  sir  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  not  your  fault,  Margaret ;  don't  be  fright- 
ened— papa  shan't  blame  you.  But  I'm  much  better  now."  So 
saying,  she  tried  to  walk ;  but  the  effart  was  vain^she  turned 
yet  more  pale,  and  though  she  struggled  to  prevent  a  shriek, 
the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

It  was  veryodd,  but  Maltravershad  never  felt  more  touched — 
the  tears  stood  in  his  own  eyes  ;  he  longed  to  carry  her  in  his 
arms,  but,  child  as  she  was;  a  strange  kind  of  nervous  timidity 
forbade  him.  Margaret,  perhaps,  expected  it  of  him,  for  she 
looked  hard  in  his  face,  before  she  attempted  a  burthen  to 
which,  being  a  small,  slight  person,  she  was  by  no  means  equal. 
However,  after  a  pause,  she  took  up  her  charge,  who,  ashamed 
of  her  tears,  and  almost  overcome  with  pain,  nestled  her  head 
in  tlie  woman's  bosom,  and  Maltravers  walked  by  her  side,  while, 
his  docile  and  well-trained  horse  followed  at  a  distance,  every 
now  and  then  putting  its  forelegs  on  the  bank,  and  cropping 
away  a  mouthful  of  leaves  from  the  hedge-row. 

"  Oh,  Margaret ! "  said  the  little  sufferer,  "  I  cannot  bear  it — ■; 
indeed  1  cannot."  > 

And  Maltravers  observed  that  Margaret  had  permitted  the 
lamed  foot  to  hang  down  unsupported,  so  that  the  pain .  must 
indeed  have  been  scarcely  bearable.  .  He  could  restrain  him- 
self no  longer.  ■  ! 

"You  are  not  strong  enough  tocarry  her,"  said-hcy  sharply,  to 
the  servant  ;  and  the  next  moment  the  child  was.  in  bis  arms. 
Oh,  with  what  anxious  tenderness  he  bore  her !  and  he  was  so 
happy  when  she  turned  her  face  to  him  and  smiled,  and  told 
him  she  now  scarcely  felt  the  pain.  If.it  were  possible  to  be 
in  love  with  a  child  of  eleyen  years  old,  MaltraYers'.wasalnoost  in 


252  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

love.  His  pulses  trembled  as  he  felt  her  pure. breath  on  his 
cheek,  and  her  rich,  beautiful  hair  was  waved  by  the  breeze 
across  his  lips.  He  hushed  his  voice  to  a  whisper  as  he  poured 
forth  all  the  soothing  and  comforting  expressions  which  give  a 
natural  eloquence  to  persons  fond  of  children — and  Ernest 
Maltravers  was  the  idol  of  children  ;  he  understood  and  sym- 
pathized with  them  ;  he  had  a  great  deal  of  the  child  himself 
beneath  the  rough  and  cold  husk  of  his  proud  reserve.  At 
length  they  came  to  a  lodge,  and  Margaret,  eagerly  inquiring 
"  whether  master  and  missus  were  at  home,"  seemed  delighted 
to  hear  they  were  not.  Ernest,  however,  insisted  on  bearing 
his  charge  across  the  lawn  to  the  house,  which,  like  most  subur- 
ban villas,  was  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  lodge  ;  and,  receiv- 
ing the  most  positive  promise  that  surgical  advice  should  be 
immediately  sent  for,  he  was  forced  to  content  himself  with' 
laying  the  sufferer  on  a  sofa  in  the  drawing-room  ;  and  she 
thanked  him  so  prettily,  and  assured  him  she  was  so  much 
easier,  that  he  would  have  given  the  world  to  kiss  her.  The 
child  nad  completed  her  conquest  over  him  by  being  above  the 
child's  ordinary  littleness  of  making  the  worst  of  things  in 
order  to  obtain  the  consequence  and  dignity  of  being  pitied; 
she  was  evidently  unselfish  and  considerate  for  others.  He  did 
kiss  her,  but  it  was  the  hand  that  he  kissed,  and  no  cavalier 
ever  kissed  his  lady's  hand  with  more  respect ;  and  then,  for 
the  first  lime,  the  child  blushed — then,  for  the  first  time,  she 
felt  as  if  the  day  would  come  when  she  should  be  a  child  no 
longer!  Why  was  this? — perhaps  because  it  was  an  era  in 
life — the  first  sign  of  a  tenderness  that  inspires  respect,  not 
familiarity  ! 

"  If  ever  again  I  could  be  in  love,"  said  Maltravers,  as  he 
spurred  on  his  road,  "  I  really  think  it  would  be  with  that  ex- 
quisite child.  My  feeling  is  more  like  that  of  love  at  first  sight, 
than  any  emotion  which  beauty  ever  caused  in  me.  Alice — 
Valerie — no ;  t  he  first  sight  of  them  did  not : — but  what 
folly  is  this  ! — a  child  of  eleven — and  I  verging  upon  thirty!  " 

Still,  however,  folly  as  it  might  be,  the  image  of  that  young 
girl  haunted  Maltravers  for  many  days ;  till  change  of  scene, 
the  distractions  of  society,  the  grave  thoughts  of  manhood, 
and,  above  all,  a  series  Of  exciting  circumstances  about  to  be 
narrated,  gradually  obliterated  a  strange  and  most  delightful 
impression.  He  had  learned,  however,  that  Templeton  \vas 
the  proprietor  of  the  villa,  which  was  the  child's  home.  He 
wrote  to  Ferrers,  to  narrate  the  incident,  and  to  inquire  after 
the  sufferer.     In  due  time  he  heard  from  that  gentl6man  that 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  253 

the  child  was  recovered,  and  gone  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton  to  Brighton,  for  change  of  air  and  sea-bathing. 


Jm 


BOOK  VII. 

!1  V^-,f. 


OvXi&ppuKvnpi^. — EURIP.  //>Aig.  in  Aul.  1.  1373. 

Whither  come  Wisdom's  queen 
And  the  snare-weaving  Love. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  Notittam  primosque  gradus  viciriia  fecit."  * — Ovid. 

Cleveland's  villa  was  full,  and  of  persons  usually  called 
agreeable.  Amongst  the  rest  was  Lady  Florence  Lascelles. 
The  wise  old  man  had  ever  counselled  Maltravers  not  to  marry 
too  young  ;  but  neither  did  he  wish  him  to  put  off  that  mo- 
mentous epoch  of  life  till  all  the  bloom  of  heart  and  emotion 
was ,  passed  away.  He  thought,  with  the  old  lawgivers,  that 
thirty  was  the  happy  age  for  forming  a  connection,  in  the 
choice  of  which,  with  the  reason  of  manhood,  ought,  perhaps, 
to  be  blended  the  passion  of  youth.  And  he  saw  that  few  men 
were  more  capable. than  Maltravers  of  the  true  enjoyments  of 
domestic  life.  He  had  long  thought,  also,  that  none  were 
more  calculated  to  sympathize  with  Ernest's  views,  and  appre- 
ciate his  peculiar  character,  than  the  gifted  and  brilliant  Flor- 
ence Lascelles.  Cleveland  looked  with  toleration  on  her  many 
eccentricities  of  thought  and  conduct, — eccentricities  which  he 
thought  would  melt  away  beneath  the  influence  of  that  attach- 
ment which  usually  operates  so  great  a  change  in  women;  arid, 
where  it  is  strongly  and  intensely  f^lt,  n)oulds  even  those  of  the 
most  obstinate  character  int;o,  complianipe  or  similitu,d.e  with  the 
sentiments  or  habits  of  its  object.    .  ...j    ,  ,"^  mZvii  i>c-i  '{.■(■    • 

The  stately  self-control  of  Maltrayers;  was,  n^  conceived, 
precisely  that  quality  that  gives  to  men  an  unconscious  com- 
mand jover  the  very  thoughts  of  the  wo,ma,n  whose  affection 
they  win :  while,  on  the  otiier  hand,  he  hoped  that  the  fancy 

♦  Neighborhood  caused  the  acquaintance  and ifirstiintrddoction.    f.,    '  " 


254  ERNEST    MALTR AVERS. 

and  enthusiasm  of  Florence  would  tend  to  render  sharper  and 
more  practical  an  ambition  which  seemed  to  the  sober  man  of 
the  world  too  apt  to  refine  upon  the  means,  and  to  cui  bono 
the  objects,  of  worldly  distinction.  Besides,  Cleveland  was  one 
who  thoroughly  appreciated  the  advantages  of  wealth  and 
station  ;  and  the  rank  and  the  dower  of  Florence  were  such  as 
would  force  Maltravers  into  a  position  in  social  life  which 
could  not  fail  to  make  new  exaction^  ijpon  talents  which  Cleve- 
land fancied  were  precisely  those  adapted  rather  to  command 
than  to  serve.  In  Ferrers  he  recognized  a  man  to  get  into 
power — in  Maltravers  one.  by  whom  power,  if  ever  attained, 
would  be  wielded  with  dignity,  and  exerted  for  great  uses. 
Something,  therefore,  higher  than  mere  covetousness  for  the 
vulgar  interests  of  Maltravers,  made  Cleveland  desire  to  secure 
to  him  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  great  heiress ;  and  he  fancied 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  obstacle,  it  would  not  be  in  the 
will  of  Lady  Florence  herself.  He  prudently  resolved,  how- 
ever, to  leave  rtiatters  to  their  natural  ;Course.  He  hinted 
nothing  to  one  party  or  the  other.  No  place  for  falling  in  love 
like  a  large  country-house,  and  no  time  for  it,  amongst  the  in- 
dolent well-botn,  likQ  the  close  of  a  London  season,  when, 
jaded  by  small  cafes,  and  sickened  of  hollow  intimacies,  even 
the  coldest  may  welt  yearn  for  the  , tones  pf  affectioDF^the  ex* 
(citement  of  an  holiest  emotion.     '     ''  '''■'  .''■'•  ''"  "'J  »i  -  'jioJc-MXi 

Somehow  or  other  it  happened  that  Florence  and' Ernfest, 
after  the  first  day  or  two,  were  constantly  thrown  together. 
She  rode  oft  horseback,  ^hd  Msltravers  was  by  her  side  ;  they 
made  excursions  on  the  river,  and  they  sate  on  the  same  bench 
in  the  gliding  pleasure-boat.  In  the  evenings,  the  younger 
guests,  with  the  assistahce  :df  tlte  neighboring  families,  often 
got  up  a  dance  in  a  temporary  pavilion  built  but  of  the  dining- 
room.  Ernest  never  danced.:  Florence  did  at"  first.  But  once, 
as  she  was  conversing  with  Maltravers,'Svhen'a  g^ay  guardsman 
came  to  claim  her  promised  hand  in  the  waltz.  She  seemed 
struck  by  a  grave  change 'in  Ernest's  face;  '\/     i>:i:o.v    i.  :,!o.!. 

"Do  you' never  waltz?'*  she  asked,  white  the^gua'rdsfnaii'Wfe 
searching  for  a  co^ft'et  wherein  safdy  to  'deposit  his  hiat,        '•  ' 

"No,"  Said  he;  "yfet  there  is  no  impropriety  mwywraltzingi" 

"And  you  piean  that  there  is  iA'iftine?"'      '  '•     "    ''■'"  '     ,;   ' 

"Pardon  me-^I  did  riot  sai  so.'* 

"But  you  think  it."    '''".■  - 

"  "Nay.  oh  ,c6nsfdtetatiori,'  1:  am  glaxi,  perhaps,  that  you  do 
^altz."-^'^         ■    ■     ;"'^     ••  r     ^  :     ^-    .     .  •'=      {•:.</ 

"  You  are  itiysterious," 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  255 

''Well  then,  I  mean  that  you  are  precisely  the  woman  I 
would  never  fall  in  love  with.  And  I  feel  the  danger  is  less- 
ened when  I  see  you  destroy  any  one  of  my  illusions,  or,  I 
ought  to  say,  attack  any  one  of  my  prejudices." 

Lady  Florence  colored ;  but  the  guardsman  and  the  music 
left  her  no  time  for  reply.  However,  after  that  night  she 
waltzed  no  more.  She  was  unwell — she  declared  she  was  or- 
dered not  to  dance,  and  so  quadrilles  were  relinquished  as  well 
as  the  waltz. 

Maltravers  could  not  but  be  touched  and  flattered  by  this 
regard  for  his  opinion  ;  but  Florence  contrived  to  testify  it  so 
as  to  forbid  acknowledgment,  since  another  motive  had  been 
found  for  it.  The  second  evening  after  that  commemorated 
by  Ernest's  candid  rudeness,  they  chanced  to  meet  in  the  con- 
servatory, which  was  connected  with  the  ball-room ;  and 
Ernest,  pausing  to  inquire  after  her  health,  was  struck  by  the 
listless  and  dejected  sadness  which  spoke  in  her  tone  and  coun- 
tenance as  she  replied  to  him. 

"  Dear  Lady  Florence,"  said  he,  "  I  fear  you  are  worse  than 
you  will  confess.  You  should  shun  these  draughts.  You  owe 
it  to  your  friends  to  be  more  careful  of  yourself." 

"Friends!"  said  Lady  Florence,  bitterly  —  "I  have  no 
friends! — even  my  poor  father  would  not  absent  himself  from 
a  cabinet  dinner  a  week  after  I  was  dead.  But  that  is  the  coa- 
dition  of  public  life — its  hot  and  searing  blaze  puts  out  the 
lights  of  all  lesser  but  not  unholier  affections.  Friends  ! 
Fate,  that  made  Florence  Lascelles  the  envied  heiress,  denied 
her  brothers,  sisters  ;  and  the  hour  of  her  birth  lost  her  even 
the  love  of  a  mother?     Friends  !  where  shall  I  find  them  ?" 

As  she  ceased,  she  turned  to  the  open  casement,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  verandah,  and  by  the  trembling  of  her  voice  Ernest 
felt  that  she  had  done  so  to  hide  or  to  suppress  her  tears. 

"Yet,"  said  he,  following  her,  "there  is  one  class  of  more 
distant  friends,  whose  interest  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  cannot 
fail  to  secure,  however  she  may  disdain  it.  Among  the  hum- 
blest of  that  class  suffer  me  to  rank  myself.  Come,  I  assume 
the  privilege  of  advice — the  night-air  is  a  luxury  you  must  not 
indulge." 

"  No,  no,  it  refreshes  me — it  soothes.  You  misunderstand 
me,  I  have  no  illness  that  still  skies  and  sleeping  flowers  can 
increase." 

Maltravers,  as  is  evident,  was  not  in  love  with  Florence,  but 
he  could  not  fail, — ^brought,  as  he  had  lately  been,  under  the 
direct  influence  of  her  r^re  and  prodigal  gifts,  mentaland  per^ 


256  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

sonal, — to  feel  for  her  a  strong  and  even  affectionate  interest ; 
the  very  frankness  with  w-hich  he  was  accustomed  to  speak  to 
heXi  and  the  many  links  of  communioi)  there  necessarily  were 
between  himself  and  a  mind  so  naturally  powerful  and  so 
richly  cultivated,  had  already  esta,bli$hed  their  acquaintance 
upon  an  intimate  footing. 

"  I  can  not  restrain  you,  Lady  Florence,"  said  he,  hajf  sraiU 
ing,  "  but  my  conscience- will  not  let  me  be  an  accon>plice., :  I. 
will  turn  king's  evidence,  and  hunt  out  Lord  Saxingham  to  sqridi 
him  to  you."  :.,.!•.  ;  • .' 

Lady  Florence,  whose  face  was  averted  hx^ifx  hi^  did;  not 
appear  to  hear  him.  ,,  ,,       ,,    , 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Maltrayers,"  turning  quickly  rourjpl— "  yoHirn 
have  you  friends?  Do  you  feel  that  there  are,  I  do  not  say 
public,  but  private — affections  and  duties,  for  which  life  is  made 
less  a  possession  than  a  trust .'' "  .,,,; 

"  Lady  Florence — no  ! — I  have  frieiiids,  it  is  true,  and  Clevi^ 
land  is  of  the  nearest  ;  but  the  life  within  life — the  second  self, 
in  whom  we  vest  the  right  and  mastery  over  our  own:  being — I 
know  it  noL  But  is  it,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "a  rare  pri- 
vation ?  Perhaps  it  is  a  happy  one.  I  Jiave  learufd  to  Jij^an 
on  my  own  soul,  and  not  look  elsewhere  for  Xhe  r^e^^at  a 
wind  ca.n  break."  ,     .,  i  ,  .  .»,.    ,  .. 

«"  Ah,  itis  a  cold  philosophy-^yo.u  may  reconcile  yourself  tq 
its -wisdom  in  the  world,  in  th^himi  and  shock  of  m^n  ;  but  in 
solitude,; with  Nature — ah,  noJ  While  the: mind  alone  is  occu- 
pied, you  may  be  contented  with  the  pride  of  stoicism  ;  but 
there  are  moments  when  the  Z^^'d'/'/. wakens  as  from  a  sleep- 
wakens  like  a  frightened  child^to  feel  itself,  ^lone  and  in  the 
dark."  .  f  '•     -.i;  -•'     ;  .  .  ' 

Ernest  was  silent,  and  Florence  continued,  in  an,  altered 
voice:  "  This  is  a  strange  conversation,  and  you  must:  think 
me  indeed  a  wild,  romance-reading  person,- as  the  world  is  apt 
to  call  me.  But  if  I  liv^-^I— pshaw  !— -life  denies  AKnbitiio.q.iQ 
women.':';    .  ;:  .->?;ii  vi.tf:      i-  vivv  .k.!'  .■■-'. .-i^?.  03  l-s'i 

;'  If  a  woman  like  youy  Lady  i.Floi?enc<^,/8liourd  ?ever  lov«,:it 
will  beione  in  whose  career,  you  may  perhaps  find  that  noblest 
of  all  ambitions — the  ambition  women  only  feel — the  auibitioa 
for  another  !  "  ;;a7     .^jilu-^---  il — 3rti     ^.d:J!i•?^   ii       ;  .•    ' 

"Ah  !  but  I  ishall n^ver  love^":  said  Lady, Florence,  and  her 
cheek  grew  pale  as  the  starlight  fell  on  it ;  "  still,  perhaps,"  she 
added,  "  I  may  atleast  know  the-blessing  of  ;  friendship.  Why 
naw,"  andjierei  approaching  Maltravers,  shelaid  her. hand  with 
a  wiirming  frankness,ori;hiS  'arm^rr-;!  why  nftw,  §ho4Ald  we  not  he 


ERNEST    MALTRAVEKS. 


-^57 


to  each  other  as  if  love,  as  you  call  it,  were  not  a  thing  for  earth — 
and  friendshi2:)  supplied  its  place  ! — there  is  no  danger  of  our 
falling  in  love  with  each  other.  You  are  not  vain  enough  to  ex- 
pect it  in  nie,  and  I,  you  know,  am  a  coquette;  let  us  befriends, 
confidants — at  least  till  you  marry,  or  I  give  another  the  right  to 
control  my  friendship  and  monopolize  my  secrets." 

Maltravers  was  startled — the  sentiment  Florence  addressed 
to  him,  he,  in  words  not  dissimilar,  had  once  addressed  to  Valerie. 

**  The  world,"  said  he,  kissing  the  hand  that  yet  lay  on  his 
arm,  "the  world  will — " 

"Oh,  you  men! — the  world,  the  world;  everything  gentle, 
everything  pure,  everything  noble,  high-wrought  and  holy — is 
to  be  squared,  and  cribbed,  and  maimed  to  the  rule  and  measure 
of  the  world  !  The  world — are  you  too  its  slave  ?  Do  you  not 
despise  its  hollow  cant — its  methodical  hypocrisy  ?" 

"  Heartily  !  "  said  Ernest  Maltravers,  almost  with  fierceness. 
"  No  man  ever  so  scorned  its  false  gods  and  its  miserable  creeds — 
its  war  upon  the  weak — its  fawning  upon  the  great — its  ingrati- 
tude to  benefactors — its  sordid  league  with  mediocrity  against 
excellence.  Yes,  in  proportion  as  I  love  mankind,  I  despise 
and  detest  that  worse  than  Venetian  oligarchy  which  mankind 
set  over  them  and  call  'the  world.'  " 

And  then  it  was,  warmed  by  the  excitement  of  released  feel- 
ings, long  and  carefully  shrouded,  that  this  man,  ordinarily  so 
calm  and  self-possessed,  poured  burningly  and  passionately 
forth  all  those  tumultuous  and  almost  tremendous  thoughts 
which,  however  much  we  may  regulate,  control,  or  disguise  them, 
lurk  deep  within  the  souls  of  all  of  us,  the  seeds  of  the  eternal 
war  between  the  natural  man  and  the  artificial  :  between  our 
wilder  genius  and  our  social  conventionalities — thoughts  that 
from  time  to  time  break  forth  into  the  harbingers  of  vain  and 
fruitless  revolutions,  impotent  struggles  against  destiny;  thoughts 
that  good  and  wise  men  would  be  slow  to  promulge  and  propa- 
gate, for  they  are  of  a  fire  which  burns  as  well  as  brightens,  and 
which  spreads  from  heart  to  heart — as  a  spark  spreads  amidst 
flax  ; — thoughts  which  are  rifest  where  natures  are  most  high 
but  belong  to  truths  that  Virtue  dare  not  tell  aloud.  And  as 
Maltravers  spoke,  with  his  eyes  flashing  almost  intolerable  light — 
his  breast  heaving,  his  form  dilated,  never  to  the  eyes  of  Flor- 
ence Lascelles  did  he  seem  so  great  ;  the  chains  that  bound  the 
strong  limbs  of  his  spirit  seemed  snapped  asunder,  and  all  his 
soul  was  visible  and  towering,  as  a  thing  that  has  escaped  slav- 
ery, and  lifts  its  crest  to  heaven,  and  feels  that  it  is  free. 

That  evening  saw  a  new  bond  of  alliance  between  these  two 


258  ERNEST    MALTKAVERS. 

persons  ;  young,  handsome,  and  of  opposite  sexes,  they  agreed 
to  be  friends,  and  nothing  more  !     Fools  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Idem  velle,  et  idem  nolle,  ea  demum  firma  amicitia  est."  * — Sallust 

"  Carlos.   That  letter. 

Princess  Eboli,  Oh,  I  shall  die.     Return  it  instantly." 

Schiller  :  Don  Carlos, 

It  seemed  as  if  the  compact  Maltravers  and  Lady  Florence 
had  entered  into  removed  whatever  embarrassment  and  reserve 
had  previously  existed.  They  now  conversed  with  an  ease  and 
freedom  not  common  in  persons  of  different  sexes  before  they 
have  passed  their  grand  climacteric.  Ernest,  in  ordinary  life, 
like  most  men  of  warm  emotions  and  strong  imagination,  if  not 
taciturn,  was  at  least  guarded.  It  was  as  if  a  weight  were  taken 
from  his  breast  when  he  found  one  person  who  could  under- 
stand him  best  when  he  was  most  candid.  His  eloquence,  his 
poetry,  his  intense  and  concentrated  enthusiasm  found  a  voice. 
He  could  talk  to  an  individual  as  he  would  have  written  to  the 
public — a  rare  happiness  to  the  men  of  books. 

Florence  seemed  to  recover  her  health  and  spirits  as  by  a 
miracle;  yet  was  she  more  gentle,  more  subdued,  than  of  old — 
there  was  less  effort  to  shine,  less  indifference  whether  she 
shocked.  Persons  who  had  not  met  her  before  wondered  why 
she  was  dreaded  in  society.  But  at  times  a  great  natural  irri- 
tability of  temper — a  quick  suspicion  of  the  motives  of  those 
around  her — an  imperious  and  obstinate  vehemence  of  will, 
were  visible  to  Maltravers,  and  served,  perhaps,  to  keep  him 
heart-whole.  He  regarded  her  through  the  eyes  of  the  intellect, 
not  those  of  the  passions — he  thought  not  of  her  as  a  woman — 
her  very  talents,  her  very  grandeur  of  idea  and  power  of  pur- 
pose, while  they  delighted  him  in  conversation,  diverted  his 
imagination  from  dwelling  on  her  beauty.  He  looked  on  her 
as  something  apart  from  her  sex — a  glorious  creature  spoilt 
by  being  a  v/oman.  He  once  told  her  so,  laughingly,  and  Flor- 
ence considered  it  a  compliment.  Poor  Florence,  her  scorn  of 
her  sex  avenged  her  sex,  and  robbed  her  of  her  proper  destiny  ! 

Cleveland  silently  observed  th^ir  intimacy,  and  listened  with 
a  quiet  smile  to  the  gossips  who  pointed  out  tite-h-tites  by  the 
terrace,  and  loiterings  by  the  lawn,  and  predicted  what   would 

f  Tq  will  the  same  thing  and  not  to  will  the  same  thing,  that  a*  length  is  firm  friendshiQ, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  259 

come  of  it  all.  Lord  Saxingham  was  blind.  But  his  daughter 
was  of  age,  in  possession  of  her  princely  fortune,  and  had  long 
made  him  sensible  of  her  independence  of  temper.  His  lord- 
ship, however,  thoroughly  misunderstood  the  character  of  her 
pride,  and  felt  fully  convinced  she  would  marry  no  one  less 
than  a  duke  ;  as  for  flirtations,  he  thought  them  natural  and 
innocent  amusements.  Besides,  he  was  very  little  at  Temple 
Grove.  He  went  to  London  every  morning,  after  breakfasting  in 
his  own  room — came  back  to  dine,  play  at  whist,  and  talk  good- 
humored  nonsense  to  Florence  in  his  dressing-room,  for  the 
three  minutes  that  took  place  between  his  sipping  his  wine-and- 
waterand  the  appearance  of  his  valet.  As  for  the  other  guests, 
it  was  not  their  business  to  do  more  than  gossip  with  each  other; 
and  so  Florence  and  Maltravers  went  on  their  way  unmolested, 
though  not  unobserved.  Maltravers,  not  being  himself  in  love, 
never  fancied  that  Lady  Florence  loved  him,  or  that  she  would 
be  in  any  danger  of  doing  so  ;  that  is  a  mistake  a  man  often 
commits — a  woman  never.  A  woman  always  knows  when  she 
is  loved,  though  she  often  imagines  she  is  loved  when  she  is  not. 
Florence  was  not  happy,  for  happiness  is  a  calm  feeling.  But 
she  was  excited  with  a  vague,  wild,  intoxicating  emotion. 

She  had  learned  from  Maltravers  that  she  had  been  misin- 
formed by  Ferrers,  and  that  no  other  claimed  empire  over  his 
heart ;  and  whether  or  not  he  loved  her,  still  for  the  present 
they  seemed  all  in  all  to  each  other  ;  she  lived  but  for  the  pres- 
ent day,  she  would  not  think  of  the  morrow. 

Since  that  severe  illness  which  had  tended  so  much  to  alter 
Ernest's  mode  of  life,  he  had  not  come  before  the  public  as  an 
author.  Latterly,  however,  the  old  habit  had  broken  out  again. 
With  the  comparative  idleness  of  recent  years,  the  ideas  and 
feelings  which  crowd  so  fast  on  the  poetical  temperament,  once 
indulged,  had  accumulated  within  him  to  an  excess  that  de- 
manded vent.  For  with  some,  to  write  is  not  a  vague  desire,  but 
an  imperious  destiny.  The  fire  is  kindled  and  must  break  forth; 
the  wings  are  fledged,  and  the  birds  must  leave  their  nest.  The 
communication  of  thought  to  man  is  implanted  as  an  instinct 
in  those  breasts  to  which  heaven  has  intrusted  the  solemn  agen- 
cies of  genius.  In  the  work  which  Maltravers  now  composed, 
he  consulted  Florence  ;  his  confidence  delighted  her — it  was 
a  compliment  she  could  appreciate.  Wild,  fervid,  impassioned 
was  that  work — a  brief  and  holiday  creation — the  youngest  and 
most  beloved  of  the  children  of  his  brain.  And  as  day  by  day 
the  bright  design  grew  into  shape,  and  thought  and  imagination 
found  themselves  "local  habitations,"  Florence  felt  as  if  she  were? 


26o  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

admitted  into  the  palace  of  the  genii,  and  made  acquainted  with 
the  mechanism  of  those  spells  and  charms  with  which  the  pre- 
ternatural powers  of  mind  design  the  witchery  of  the  world. 
Ah,  how  different  in  depth  and  majesty  were  those  intercom- 
munications of  idea  between  Ernest  Maltravers  and  a  woman 
scarcely  inferior  to  himself  in  capacity  and  requirement,  from 
that  bridge  of  shadowy  and  dim  sympathies  which  the  enthusiastic 
boy  had  once  built  up  between  his  own  poetry  of  knowledge 
and  Alice's  poetry  of  love. 

It  was  one  late  afternoon  in  September,  when  the  sun  was 
slowly  going  down  its  western  way,  that  Lady  Florence,  who 
had  been  all  that  morning  in  her  own  room,  paying  off,  as  she 
said,  the  dull  arrears  of  correspondence,  rather  on  Lord  Sax- 
ingham's  account  than  her  own  ;  for  he  punctiliously  exacted 
from  her  the  most  scrupulous  attention  to  cousins  fifty  times 
removed,  provided  they  were  rich,  clever,  well  off,  or  in  any 
way  of  consequence  : — it  was  one  afternoon  that,  relieved  from 
these  avocations,  Lady  Florence  strolled  through  the  grounds 
with  Cleveland.  The  gentlemen  were  still  in  the  stubble-fields, 
the  ladies  were  out  in  barouches  and  pony  phaetons,  and  Cleve- 
land and  Lady  Florence  were  alone. 

Apropos  of  Florence's  epistolary  employment,  their  con- 
versation fell  upon  that  most  charming  species  of  literature, 
which  joins  with  the  interest  of  a  novel  the  truth  of  a  history — 
the  French  memoir  and  letter-writers.  It  was  a  part  of  litera- 
ture in  which  Cleveland  was  thoroughly  at  home. 

"  Those  agreeable  and  polished  gossips,"  said  he,  "  how  well 
they  contrived  to  introduce  Nature  into  Art !  Everything  arti- 
ficial seemed  so  natural  to  them.  They  even  feel  by  a  kind  of 
clockwork,  which  seems  to  go  better  than  the  heart  itself.  Those 
pretty  sentiments,  those  delicate  gallantries  of  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne  to  her  daughter,  how  amiable  they  are  ;  but,  somehow  or 
other,  I  can  never  fancy  them  the  least  motherly.  What  an  end- 
ing for  a  maternal  epistle  is  that  elegant  compliment — *  Songez 
que  de  tons  les  coeurs  oil  vous  regnez,  il  n'y  en  a  aucun  ou  votre 
empire  soit  si  bien  etabli  que  dans  le  mien.'*  I  can  scarcely 
fancy  Lord  Saxingham  writing  so  to  you.  Lady  Florence." 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Lady  Florence,  smiling.  "  Neither 
papas  nor  mammas  in  England  are  much  addicted  to  compli- 
ment ;  but  I  confess  I  like  preserving  a  sort  of  gallantry  even 
in  our  most  familiar  connections- -why  should  we  not  carry  the 
imagination  into  all  the  affections  ?  " 

♦  Think  that  of  all  the  hearts  over  which  you  reign,  there  is  not  one  in  which  your  em- 
pire can  be  so  well  established  as  in  mine. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  261 

"  I  can  scarce  answer  the  why,"  returned  Cleveland;  "but 
I  think  it  would  destroy  the  reality.  I  am  rather  of  the  old 
school.  If  I  had  a  daughter,  and  asked  her  to  get  my  slippers, 
I  am  afraid  I  should  think  it  a  little  wearisome  if  I  had,  in 
receiving  them,  to  make  des  belles  phrases  in  return." 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  and  Lady  Florence  continued 
to  press  her  side  of  the  question,  they  passed  through  a  little 
grove  that  conducted  to  an  arm  of  the  stream  which  ornamented 
the  grounds,  and  by  its  quiet  and  shadowy  gloom  was  meant  to 
give  a  contrast  to  the  livelier  features  of  the  domain.  Here  they 
came  suddenly  upon  Maltravers.  He  was  walking  by  the  side 
of  the  brook,  and  evidently  absorbed  in  thought. 

It  was  the  trembling  of  Lady  Florence's  hand  as  it  lay  on 
Cleveland's  arm,  that  induced  him  to  stop  short  in  an  animated 
commentary  on  Rochefoucauld's  character  of  Cardinal  de  Retz, 
and  look  round. 

"  Ha,  most  meditative  Jacques  !  "  said  he  ;  "  and  what  new 
moral  hast  thou  been  conning  in  our  Forest  of  Ardennes  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  wish  to  consult  you,  Cleveland. 
But  first,  Lady  Florence,  to  convince  you  and  our  host  that  my 
rambles  have  not  been  wholly  fruitless,  and  that  I  could  not 
walk  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  and  find  all  barren,  accept  my  offer- 
ing— a  wild  rose  that  I  discovered  in  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood. 
It  is  not  a  civilized  rose.     Now,  Cleveland,  a  word  with  you." 

"And  now,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  ^(? //■<?/,"  said  Lady  Florence. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  have  no  secrets  from  you  in  this  matter — or 
rather,  these  matters ;  for  there  are  two  to  be  discussed.  In 
the  first  place.  Lady  Florence,  that  poor  Cesarini, — you  know 
and  like  him — nay,  no  blushes." 

"  Did  I  blush  ? — then  it  was  in  recollection  of  an  old  reproach 
of  yours." 

"At  its  justice! — well,  no  matter.  He  is  one  for  whom  I 
always  felt  a  lively  interest.  His  very  morbidity  of  tempera- 
ment only  increases  my  anxiety  for  his  future  fate.  I  have  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  De  Montaigne,  his  brother-in-law,  who 
seems  seriously  uneasy  about  Castruccio.  He  wishes  him  to 
leave  England  at  once,  as  the  sole  means  of  restoring  his  broken 
fortunes.  De  Montaigne  has  the  opportunity  of  procuring  for 
him  a  diplomatic  situation,  which  may  not  again  occur — and — but 
you  know  the  man  ! — what  shall  we  do  ?  I  am  sure  he  will  not 
listen  to  me  ;  he  looks  on  me  as  an  interested  rival  for  fame." 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  any  subtler  eloquence  ?  "  said  Cleveland. 
"  No,  I  am  an  author,  too.  Come,  I  think  your  ladyship  must 
be  the  arch-negotiator." 


262  ERNESt   MALTRAVERS. 

"  He  has  genius,  he  has  merit,"  said  Maltravers,  pleadingly: 
**  he  wants  nothing  but  time  and  experience  to  wean  him  from 
his  foibles.      fVi'/l  you  try  to  save  him,  Lady  Florence  ? " 

"  Why !  nay,  I  must  not  be  obdurate  ;  I  will  see  him  when  I 
go  to  town.  It  is  like  you,  Mr.  Maltravers,  to  feel  this  interest  in 
one — " 

'Who  does  not  like  me,  you  would  say  ;  but  he  will  some 
day  or  other.  Besides,  I  owe  him  deep  gratitude.  In  his 
Weaker  qualities  I  have  seen  many  which  all  literary  men  might 
inf.ur,  without  strict  watch  over  themselves ;  and  let  me  add, 
alsc,  his  family  have  great  claims  on  me." 

''  You  believe  in  the  soundness  of  his  heart,  and  in  the  integ- 
rity of  his  honor?"  said  Cleveland,  inquiringly. 

''  fndeed  I  do :  these  are,  these  must  be,  the  redeeming 
qualities  of  poets." 

Maltravers  spoke  warmly;  and  such  at  that  time  was  his  influ- 
ence over  Florence  that  his  words  formed — alas,  too  fatally  I— 
her  estimate  of  Castruccio's  character,  which  had  at  first  been 
high,  but  which  his  own  presumption  had  latterly  shaken.  She 
had  seen  him  three  or  four  times  in  the  interval  between  the 
receipt  of  his  apologetic  letter  and  her  visit  to  Cleveland,  and 
he  had  seemed  to  her  rather  sullen  than  humbled.  But  she  felt 
for  the  vanity  she  herself  had  wounded. 

"And  now,"  continued  Maltravers,  "for  my  second  subject 
of  consultation.  But  that  is  political ;  it  will  weary  Lady 
Florence?" 

"Oh,  no  ;  to  politics  I  am  never  indifferent :  they  always  in- 
spire me  with  contempt  or  admiration,  according  to  the  motives 
of  those  who  bring  the  science  into  action.    Pray  say  on." 

"  Well,"  said  Cleveland,  "  one  confidant  at  a  time  ;  you  will 
forgive  me,  for  I  see  my  guests  coming  across  the  lav/n,  and  I 
may  as  well  make  a  diversion  in  your  favor.  Ernest  can  consult 
tng  at  any  time." 

Cleveland  walked  away  ;  but  the  intimacy  between  Maltrav- 
ers and  Florence  was  of  so  frank  a  nature,  that  there  was  noth- 
ing embarrassing  in  the  thought  of  a  tete-h-tete. 

"  Lady  Florence,"  said  Ernest,  "  there  is  no  one  in  the  world 
with  whom  I  can  confer  so  cheerfully  as  with  you.  I  am  almost 
glad  of  Cleveland's  absence,  for,  with  all  his  amiable  and  fine 
qualities,  'the  world  is  too  much  with  him,'  and  we  do  not  argue 
from  the  same  data.     Pardon  my  prelude — now  to  my  position. 

I  have  received  a  letter  from  Mr. .     That  statesman,  whom 

none  but  those  acquainted  with  the  chivalrous  beauty  of  his 
nature  can  understand  or  appreciate,  sees  before  him  the  most 


feRNEST    MALTRAVERS.  263 

brilliant  career  that  ever  opened  in  this  country  to  a  public  man 
not  born  an  aristocrat.  He  has  asked  me  to  form  one  of  the 
new  administration  that  he  is  about  to  create :  the  place  of- 
fered to  me  is  above  my  merits,  nor  suited  to  what  I  have  yet 
done,  though,  perhaps,  it  be  suited  to  what  I  may  yet  do.  1 
make  that  qualification,  for  you  know,"  added  Ernest,  with  a 
proud  smile,  "that  I  am  sanguine  and  self-confident," 

"You  accept  the  proposal  ?  " 

"  Nay, — should  I  not  reject  it  ?  Our  politics  are  the  same 
only  for  the  moment,  our  ultimate  objects  are  widely  different. 

To  serve  with  Mr. ,  I  must  make  an  unequal  compromise — 

abandon  nine  opinions  to  promote  one.  Is  not  this  a  capitula- 
tion of  that  great  citadel,  one's  own  conscience?  No  man  will 
call  me  inconsistent,  for,  in  public  life,  to  agree  with  another 
on  a  party  question  is  all  that  is  required;  the  thousand  questions 
not  yet  ripened,  and  lying  dark  and  concealed  in  the  future,  are 
not  inquired  into  and  divined  ;  but  I  own  I  shall  deem  myself 
worse  than  inconsistent.  For  this  is  my  dilemma, — if  I  use 
this  noble  spirit  merely  to  advance  one  object,  and  then  desert 
him  where  he  halts,  I  am  treacherous  to  him  ;  if  I  halt  with  him, 
but  one  of  my  objects  is  effected,  I  am  treacherous  to  myself. 
Such  are  my  views.  It  is  with  pain  I  arrive  at  them,  for,  at 
first,  my  heart  beat  with  a  selfish  ambition." 

"  You  are  right,  you  are  right,"  exclaimed  Florence,  with 
glowing  cheeks;  "how  could  I  doubt  you?  I  comprehend  the 
sacrifice  you  make  ;  for  a  proud  thing  it  is  to  soar  above 
the  predictions  of  foes  in  that  palpable  road  to  honor  which  the 
world's  hard  eyes  can  see,  and  the  world's  cold  heart  can  mea- 
sure ;  but  prouder  is  it  to  feel  that  you  have  never  advanced 
one  step  to  the  goal,  which  remembrance  would  retract.  No, 
my  friend,  wait  your  time,  confident  that  it  must  come,  when 
conscience  and  ambition  can  go  hand  in  hand — when  the  broad 
objects  of  a  luminous  and  enlarged  policy  lie  before  you  like  a 
chart,  and  you  can  calculate  every  step  of  the  way  without  peril 
of  being  lost.  Ah,  let  them  still  call  loftiness  of  purpose  and 
whiteness  of  soul  the  dreams  of  a  theorist, — even  if  they  be  so, 
the  Ideal  in  this  case  is  better  than  the  Practical.  Meanwhile 
your  position  is  not  one  to  forfeit  lightly-  Before  you  is  that 
throne  in  literature  which  it  requires  no  doubtful  step  to  win,  if 
you  have,  as  I  believe,  the  mental  power  to  attain  it.  An  ambi- 
tion that  may  indeed  be  relinquished,  if  a  more  troubled  career 
can  better  achieve  those  public  purposes  at  which  both  letters 
and  policy  should  aim,  but  which  is  not  to  be  surrendered  for 
the  rewards  of  a  placeman  or  the  advancement  of  a  courtier." 


264  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

It  was  while  uttering  these  noble  and  inspiring  sentiments 
that  Florence  Lascelles  suddenly  acquired  in  Ernest's  eyes  a 
loveliness  with  which  tliey  had  not  before  invested  her. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  as  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  lifted  her  hand 
to  his  lips,  "  blessed  be  the  hour  in  which  you  gave  me  your 
friendship !  These  are  the  thoughts  I  have  longed  to  hear 
from  living  lips,  when  I  have  been  tempted  to  believe  patriot- 
ism a  delusion,  and  virtue  but  a  name." 

Lady  Florence  heard,  and  her  whole  form  seemed  changed, — 
she  was  no  longer  the  majestic  sibyl,  but  the  attached,  timorous, 
delighted  woman. 

It  so  happened  that  in  her  confusion  she  dropped  from  her 
hand  the  flower  that  Maltravers  had  given  her,  and,  involunta- 
rily glad  of  a  pretext  to  conceal  her  countenance,  she  stooped 
to  take  it  from  the  ground.  In  so  doing,  a  letter  fell  from  her 
bosom,  and  Maltravers,  as  he  bent  forward  to  forestall  her  own 
movement,  saw  that  the  direction  was  to  himself,  and  in  the 
handwriting  of  his  unknown  correspondent.  He  seized  the 
letter,  and  gazed  in  flattered  and  entranced  astonishment,  first 
on  the  writing,  next  on  the  detected  writer.  Florence  grew 
deadly  pale,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  burst  into 
tears. 

"  O  fool  that  I  was,"  cried  Ernest,  in  the  passion  of  the 
moment,  "  not  to  know — not  to  have  felt  that  there  were  not 
two  Florences  in  the  world  !  But  if  the  thought  had  crossed 
me,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  harbor  it." 

"  Go,  go,"  sobbed  Florence  ;  "  leave  me,  in  mercy  leave  me  !  " 

"  Not  till  you  bid  me  rise,"  said  Ernest,  in  emotion  scarcely 
less  deep  than  hers,  as  he  sank  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

Need  I  go  on  ? — When  they  left  that  spot,  a  soft  confession 
had  been  made — deep  vows  interchanged,  and  Ernest  Mal- 
travers was  the  accepted  suitor  of  Florence  Lascelles. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  265 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  A  hundred  fathers  would  in  my  situation  tell  you  that,  as  you  are  of  not>le 
extraction,  you  should  marry  a  nobleman.  But  I  do  not  say  so.  I  will  not 
sacrifice  my  child  to  any  prt;judice." — KOTZEiiUE  :  Lover's  Vows. 

"  Take  heed,  my  lord  ;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man." 

Shakespeare  :  Henry  VI. 
"  O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 
Th'  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by-and-by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  !  " 

Shakespeare  :   7'Ae  7'zvo  Gentlemen  of  Ve-  vna. 

When  Maltravers  was  once  more  in  his  solitary  apartment, 
he  felt  as  in  a  dream.  He  had  obeyed  an  impulse,  irresiiitible, 
perhaps,  but  one  with  which  the  conscience  of  his  heati  was 
not  satisfied.  A  voice  whispered  to  him,  "  Thou  hast  deceived 
her  and  thyself — thou  dost  not  love  her."  In  vain  he  rei;alled 
lier  beauty,  her  grace,  her  genius — her  singular  and  enth-isias- 
tic  passion  for  himself — the  voice  still  replied,  "  Thou  dost 
love.  Bid  farewell  to  thy  fond  dreams  of  a  life  more  bjessed 
than  that  of  mortals.  From  the  stormy  sea  of  the  future  are 
blotted  out  eternally  for  thee — Calypso  and  her  Golden  Isle. 
Thou  canst  no  more  paint  on  the  dim  canvas  of  thy  desires  the 
form  of  her  with  whom  thou  couldst  dwell  forever.  Thou 
hast  been  unfaithful  to  thine  own  ideal — thou  hast  given  thy- 
self for  ever  and  for  ever  to  another — thou  hast  renounced 
hope — thou  must  live  as  in  a  prison,  with  a  being  with  whom 
thou  hast  not  the  harmony  of  love." 

'*  No  matter,"  said  Maltravers,  almost  alarmed,  and  starting 
from  these  thoughts.  "lam  betrothed  to  one  who  loves  me — 
it  is  folly  and  dishonor  to  repent  and  to  repine.  I  have  gone 
through  the  best  years  of  youth  without  finding  the  Egeria  with 
whom  the  cavern  would  be  sweeter  than  a  throne.  Why  live 
to  the  grave  a  vain  and  visionary  Nympholept  ?  Out  of  the  real 
world  could  I  have  made  a  nobler  choice  ?" 

While  Maltravers  thus  communed  with  himself,  Lady  Flor- 
ence passed  into  her  father's  dressing-room,  and  there  awaited 
his  return  from  London.  She  knew  his  worldly  views — she 
know  also  the  pride  of  her  affianced,  and  she  felt  that  she  alone 
could  mediate  between  the  two. 

Lord  Saxingham  at  last  returned  ;  busy,  bustling,  important, 
and  good-humored  as  usual.  "  Well,  Flory,  well  ? — glad  to  see 
you — quite  blooming,  I  declare, — never  saw  you  with  5uch  a 


266  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

color — monstrous  like  me,  certainly.  We  always  had  fine  com- 
plexions and  fine  eyes  in  our  family.  But  I'm  rather  late — 
first  bell  rung — we  ci-devant  jeuiies  hommes  ^xo.  rather  long  dress- 
ing, and  you  are  not  dressed  yet,  I  see." 

"  My  dearest  father,  I  wished  to  speak  with  you  on  a  matter 
of  much  importance." 

"  Do  you  !  what,  immediately  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ? — your  Slingsby  property,  I  suppose." 

'■  No,  my  dear  father — pray  sit  down  and  hear  me  patiently." 

Lord  Saxingham  began  to  be  both  alarmed  and  curious — 
he  seated  himself  in  silence,  and  looked  anxiously  in  the  face 
of  his  daughter. 

"  You  have  always  been  very  indulgent  to  me,"  commenced 
Florence,  with  a  half-smile,  "  and  I  have  had  my  own  way  more 
than  most  young  ladies.  Believe  me,  my  dear  father,  I  am 
most  grateful,  not  only  for  your  affection,  but  your  esteem.  I 
have  been  a  strange,  wild  girl,  but  I  am  now  about  to  reform  ; 
and  as  the  first  step,  I  ask  your  consent  to  give  myself  a  pre- 
ceptor and  a  guide — " 

"  A  what !  "  cried  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  In  other  words,  I  am  about  to — to — well,  the  truth  must 
out — to  marry." 

"  Has  the  Duke  of been  here  to-day  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  But  it  is  no  duke  to  whom  I  have 
promised  my  hand — it  is  a  nobler  and  rarer  dignity  that  has 
caught  my  ambition.     Mr.  Maltravers  has — " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers  ! — Mr.  Devil ! — the  girl's  mad  ! — don't  talk 
to  me,  child,  I  won't  consent  to  any  such  nonsense.  A  coun- 
try gentleman — very  respectable,  very  clever,  and  all  that,  but 
it's  no  use  talking — my  mind's  made  up.  With  your  fortune, 
too!" 

"  My  dear  father,  I  will  not  marry  without  your  consent, 
though  my  fortune  is  settled  on  me,  and  I  am  of  age." 

"There's  a  good  child — and  now  let  me  dress — we  shall  be  late." 

"  No,  not  yet,"  said  Lady  Florence,  throwing  her  arm  caress- 
ingly round  her  father's  neck — "  I  shall  marry  Mr.  Maltravers, 
but  it  will  be  with  your  full  approval.  Just  consider  ;  if  I  mar- 
ried the  Duke  of ,  he  would  expect  all  my  fortune,  such  as 

it  is.  Ten  thousand  a  year  is  at  my  disposal ;  if  I  marry  Mr.. 
Maltravers,  it  will  be  settled  on  you — I  always  meant  it — it  is  a 
poor  return  for  your  kindness,  your  indulgence — but  it  will  show 
that  your  own  Flory  is  not  ungrateful." 

'*  I  won't  hear." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  267 

**  Stop — listen  to  reason.  You  are  not  rich — you  are  entitled 
but  to  a  small  pension  if  you  ever  resign  office  ;  and  your  offi- 
cial salary,  I  have  often  heard  you  say,  does  not  prevent  you 
from  being  embarrassed.  To  whom  should  a  daughter  give 
from  her  superfluities,  but  to  a  parent?  From  whom  should  a 
parent  receive,^but  from  a  child,  who  can  never  repay  his  love  ? — • 
Ah,  this  is  nothing  ;  but  you — you  who  have  never  crossed  her 
lightest  whim — do  not  destroy  all  the  hopes  of  happiness  your 
Florence  can  ever  form." 

Florence  wept,  and  Lord  Saxingham,  who  was  greatly 
moved,  let  fall  a  few  tears  also.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to 
say  that  the  pecuniary  part  of  the  proffered  arrangement  en- 
tirely won  him  over  ;  but  still  the  way  it  was  introduced  soft- 
ened his  heart.  He  possibly  thought  that  it  was  better  to  have 
a  good  and  grateful  daughter  in  a  country  gentleman's  wife, 
than  a  sullen  and  thankless  one  in  a  duchess.  However  that 
may  be,  certain  it  is  that  before  Lord  Saxingham  began  his 
toilet  he  promised  to  make  no  obstacle  to  the  marriage,  and  all 
he  asked  in  return  was  that  at  least  three  months  (but  that, 
indeed,  the  lawyers  would  require)  should  elapse  before  it  took 
place ;  and  on  this  understanding  Florence  left  him,  radiant 
and  joyous  as  Flora  herself  when  the  sun  of  spring  p^akes  the 
world  a  garden.  Never  had  she  thought  so  little  of  her  beauty, 
and  never  had  it  seemed  so  glorious  as  that  happy  evening.  But 
Maltravers  was  pale  and  thoughtful,  and  Florence  in  vain  sought 
his  eyes  during  the  dinner,  which  seemed  to  her  insufferably 
long.  Afterward,  however,  they  met,  and  conversed  apart  the 
rest  of  the  evening  ;  and  the  beauty  of  Florence  began  to  pro- 
duce upon  Ernest's  heart  its  natural  effect  ;  and  that  evening — 
ah,  how  Florence  treasured  the  remembrance  of  every  hour, 
every  minute  of  its  annals  ! 

It  would  have  been  amusing  to  witness  the  short  conversation 
between  Lord  Saxingham  and  Maltravers,  when  the  latter  sought 
the  Earl  at  night  in  his  lordship's  room.  To  Lord  Saxingham's 
surprise,  not  a  word  did  Maltravers  utter  of  his  own  subor- 
dinate pretensions  to  Lady  Florence's  hand.  Coldly,  dryly,  and 
almost  haughtily,  did  he  make  the  formal  proposals,  "as  if  [as 
Lord  Saxingham  afterwards  said  to  Ferrers]  the  man  were  doing 
me  the  highest  possible  honor  in  taking  my  daughter,  the  beauty 
of  London,  with  fifty  thousand  a  year,  off  my  hands."  But  this 
was  quite  Maltravers  ! — if  he  had  been  proposing  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  country  curate,  witliout  a  sixpence,  he  would  have  been 
the  humblest  of  the  humble.  The  Earl  was  embarrassed  and 
discomposed — he  was  almost  awed  by  the  Siddons-like  coun- 


268  ERNEST    MAI,TRAVERS. 

tenance  and  Coriolanus-like  air  of  his  future  son-in-law — ^he 
even  hinted  nothing  of  the  compromise  as  to  time  which  he 
had  made  with  his  daughter.  He  chought  it  better  to  leave  it  to 
Lady  Florence  to  arrange  that  matter.  They  shook  hands  fri- 
gidly and  parted.  Maltravers  went  next  into  Cleveland's  room, 
and  communicated  all  to  the  delighted  old  man,  whose  con- 
gratulations were  so  fervid  that  Maltravers  felt  it  would  be  a 
sin  not  to  fancy  himself  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.  That 
night  he  wrote  his  refusal  of  the  appointment  offered  him. 

The  next  day  Lord  Saxingham  went  to  his  office  in  Down- 
ing Street  as  usual,  and  Lady  Florence  and  Ernest  found  an 
opportunity  to  ramble  through  the  grounds  alone. 

There  it  was  that  occurred  those  confessions,  sweet  alike  to 
utter  and  to  hear.  Then  did  Florence  speak  of  her  early  years — 
of  her  self-formed  and  solitary  mind — of  her  youthful  dreams 
and  reveries.  Nothing  around  her  to  excite  interest  or  admira- 
tion, or  the  more  romantic,  the  higher,  or  the  softer  qualities  of 
her  nature,  she  turned  to  contemplation  and  to  books.  It  is 
the  combination  of  the  faculties  with  the  affections,  exiled  from 
action,  and  finding  no  worldly  vent,  which  produces  Poetry,  the 
cliild  of  passion  and  of  thought.  Hence,  before  the  real  cares 
of  existence  claim  them,  the  young,  who  are  abler  yet  lonelier 
than  their  fellows,  are  nearly  always  poets  :  and  Florence  was 
a  poetess.  In  minds  like  this,  the  first  book  that  seems  to  em- 
body and  represent  their  own  most  cherished  and  beloved  trains 
of  sentiment  and  ideas  ever  creates  a  reverential  and  deep 
enthusiasm.  The  lonely,  and  proud,  and  melancholy  soul  of 
Maltravers,  which  made  itself  visible  in  all  his  creations,  be- 
came to  Florence  like  a  revealer  of  the  secrets  of  her  own 
nature.  She  conceived  an  intense  and  mysterious  interest  in 
the  man  whose  mind  exercised  so  pervading  a  power  over  her 
own.  She  made  herself  acquainted  with  his  pursuits,  his 
career — she  fancied  she  found  a  symmetry  and  harmony  between 
the  actual  being  and  the  breathing  genius — she  imagined  she 
understood  what  seemed  dark  and  obscure  to  others.  He  whom 
she  had  never  seen  grew  to  her  a  never-absent  friend.  His  ambi- 
tion, his  reputation,  were  to  her  like  a  possession  of  her  own.  So 
at  length,  in  the  folly  of  her  young  romance,  she  wrote  to  him, 
and  dreaming  of  no  discovery,  anticipating  no  result,  the  habit 
once  indulged  became  to  her  that  luxury  which  writing  for  the 
eye  of  the  world  is  to  an  author  oppressed  with  the  burden  of 
his  own  thoughts.  At  length  she  saw  him,  and  he  did  not  de- 
stroy her  illusion.  She  might  have  recovered  from  the  spell  if 
§h?  had  fpund  him  ready  at  orc?  to  worship  ^t  her  shrine.    The 


EftNest  MALtfeAVEfeS.  2^9 

mixture  of  reserve  and  frankness — frankness  of  language,  reserve 
of  manner — which  belonged  to  Maltravers,  piqued  her.  Her 
vanity  became  the  auxiliary  to  her  imagination.  At  length  they 
met  at  Cleveland's  house  ;  their  intercourse  became  more  unre- 
strained— their  friendship  was  established,  and  she  discovered 
that  she  had  wilfully  implicated  her  happiness  in  indulging  her 
dreams  ;  yet  even  then  she  believed  that  Maltravers  loved  her, 
despite  his  silence  upon  the  subject  of  love.  His  manner,  his 
words  bespoke  his  interest  in  her,  and  his  voice  was  ever  soft 
when  he  spoke  to  women  ;  for  he  had  much  of  the  old  chivalric 
respect  and  tenderness  for  the  sex.  What  was  general,  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  apply  individually — she  who  had  walked 
the  world  but  to  fascinate  and  to  conquer.  It  was  probable 
that  her  great  wealth  and  social  position  imposed  a  check  on 
the  delicate  pride  of  Maltravers — she  hoped  so — she  believed 
it — yet  she  felt  her  danger,  and  her  own  pride  at  last  took  alarm. 
In  such  a  moment  she  had  resumed  the  character  of  the  un- 
known correspondent — she  had  written  to  Maltravers — ad- 
dressed her  letter  to  his  own  house,  and  meant  the  next  day  to 
have  gone  to  London  and  posted  it  there.  In  this  letter  she 
had  spoken  of  his  visit  to  Cleveland,  of  his  position  with  her- 
self. She  exhorted  him,  if  he  loved  her,  to  confess,  and  if  not, 
to  fly.  She  had  written  artfully  and  eloquently  :  she  was  desir- 
ous of  expediting  her  own  fate  ;  and  then,  with  that  letter  in  her 
bosom,  she  had  met  Maltravers,  and  the  reader  has  learned  the 
rest.  Something  of  all  this  the  blooming  and  happy  Florence 
now  revealed :  and  when  she  ended  with  uttering  the  woman's 
soft  fear  that  she  had  been  too  bold,  is  it  wonderful  that  Mal- 
travers, clasping  her  to  his  bosom,  felt  the  gratitude  and  the  de- 
lighted vanity  which  seemed  even  to  himself  like  love  ?  And 
into  love  those  feelings  rapidly  and  deliciously  will  merge,  if 
fate  and  accident  permit ! 

And  now  they  were  by  the  side  of  the  water ;  and  the  sun  was 
gently  setting  as  on  the  eve  before.  It  was  about  the  same  hour, 
the  fairest  of  an  autumn  day  ;  none  were  near — the  slope  of  the 
hill  hid  the  house  from  their  view.  Had  they  been  in  the 
desert  they  could  not  have  been  more  alone.  It  was  not  silence 
that  breathed  around  them,  as  they  sat  on  that  bench  with  the 
broad  beech  spreading  over  them  its  trembling  canopy  of 
leaves ; — but  those  murmurs  of  living  nature  which  are  sweeter 
than  silence  itself — the  songs  of  birds — the  tinkling  bell  of  the 
sheep  on  the  opposite  bank — the  wind  sighing  through  the  trees, 
and  the  gentle  heaving  of  the  glittering  waves  that  washed  the 
odorous  reed  and  water-lily  at  their  feet.     They  had  both  been 


aJ6  £RNEST   MALTRAVERg. 

for  some  moments  silent ;  and  Florence  now  broke  the  pause, 
but  in  tones  more  low  than  usual, 

"Ah  !"  said  she,  turning  towards  him,  "these  hours  are  hap- 
pier than  we  can  find  in  that  crowded  world  whither  your  destiny 
must  call  us.  For  me,  ambition  seems  forever  at  an  end.  I 
have  found  all ;  I  am  no  longer  haunted  with  a  desire  of  gain- 
ing a  vague  something, — a  shadowy  empire,  that  we  call  fame  or 
power.  The  sole  thought  that  disturbs  the  calm  current  of  my 
soul  is  the  fear  to  lose  a  particle  of  the  rich  possession  I  have 
gained." 

"  May  your  fears  ever  be  as  idle  ! " 

"  And  you  really  love  me  !  I  repeat  to  myself  ever  and  ever 
that  one  phrase.  I  could  once  have  borne  to  lose  you, — now,  it 
would  be  my  death.  I  despaired  of  ever  being  loved  for  my- 
self ;  my  wealth  was  a  fatal  dower  ;  I  suspected  avarice  in  every 
vow,  and  saw  the  base  world  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  every  heart 
that  offered  itself  at  my  shrine.  But  you,  Ernest — you,  I  feel, 
never  could  weigh  gold  in  the  balance — and  you — if  you  love — 
love  me  for  myself." 

"  And  I  shall  love  thee  more  with  every  hour." 

"  I  know  not  that :  I  dread  that  you  will  love  me  less  when 
you  know  me  more.     I  fear  I  shall  seem  to  you  exacting — I  am 

jealous  already.    I  was  jealous  even  of  Lady  T ,  when  I  saw 

you  by  her  side  this  morning.  I  would  have  your  every  look — 
monopolize  your  every  word." 

This  confession  did  not  please  Maltravers,  as  it  might  have 
done  if  he  had  been  more  deeply  in  love.  Jealousy,  in  a  woman 
of  so  vehement  and  imperious  a  nature,  was  indeed  a  passion  to 
be  dreaded. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dear  Florence,"  said  he  with  a  very  grave 
smile  ;  "for  love  should  have  implicit  confidence  as  its  bond  and 
nature — and  jealousy  is  doubt,  and  doubt  is  the  death  of  love." 

A  shade  passed  over  Florence's  too  expressive  face,  and  she 
sighed  heavily. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Maltravers,  raising  his  eyes,  saw  the 
form  of  Lumley  Ferrers  approaching  towards  them  from  the 
opposite  end  of  the  terrace  :  at  the  same  instant  a  dark  cloud 
crept  over  the  sky,  and  the  waters  seemed  overcast,  and  the 
breeze  fell :  a  chill  and  strange  presentiment  of  evil  shot  across 
Ernest's  heart,  and,  like  many  imaginative  persons,  he  was  un- 
consciously superstitious  as  to  presentiments. 

"We  are  no  longer  alone,"  said  he,  rising ;  "your  cousin  has 
doubtless  learned  our  engagement,  and  comes  to  congratulate 
your  suitor." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  27I 

"Tell  me,"  he  continued,  musingly,  as  they  walked  on  to  meet 
Ferrers,  "are  you  very  partial  to  Lumley?  what  think  you  of 
his  character? — it  is  one  that  perplexes  me  ;  sometimes  I  think 
that  it  has  changed  since  we  parted  in  Italy — sometimes  I  think 
that  it  has  not  changed,  but  ripened." 

"Lumley  I  have  known  from  a  child,"  replied  Florence,  "and 
see  much  to  admire  and  like  in  him  ;  I  admire  his  boldness  and 
candor  ;  his  scorn  of  the  world's  littleness  and  falsehood  ;  I  like 
his  good-nature — his  gayety — and  fancy  his  heart  better  than  it 
may  seem  to  the  superficial  observer." 

"Yet  he  appears  to  me  selfish  and  unprincipled." 

"  It  is  from  a  fine  contempt  of  the  vices  and  follies  of  men  that 
he  has  contracted  the  habit  of  consulting  his  own  resolute  will — 
and,  believing  everything  done  in  this  noisy  stage  of  action  a 
cheat,  he  has  accommodated  his  ambition  to  the  fashion.  Though 
without  what  is  termed  genius,  he  will  obtain  a  distinction  and 
power  that  few  men  of  genius  arrive  at." 

"Because  genius  is  essentially  honest,"  said  Maltravers. 
"  However,  you  teach  me  to  look  on  him  more  indulgently.  I 
suspect  the  real  frankness  of  men  whom  I  know  to  be  hypocrites 
in  public  life — but,  perhaps,  I  judge  by  too  harsh  a  standard." 

"Third  persons,"  said  Ferrers,  as  he  now  joined  them,  "are 
seldom  unwelcome  in  the  country  ;  and  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
am  the  exact  thing  wanting  to  complete  the  charm  of  this 
beautiful  landscape." 

"  You  are  ever  modest,  my  cousin." 

"  It  is  my  weak  side,  I  know ;  but  I  shall  improve  with  years 
and  wisdom.  What  say  you,  Maltravers?"  and  Ferrers  passed 
his  arm  affectionately  through  Ernest's. 

"By-the-by,  I  am  too  familiar — I  am  sunk  in  the  world.  I 
am  a  thing  to  be  sneered  at  by  you  old-family  people,  I  am 
next  heir  to  a  bran-new  Brummagem  peerage.  Gad,  I  feel 
brassy  already !  " 

"What,  is  Mr.  Templeton— ?" 

"  Mr.  Templeton  no  more  ;  he  is  defunct,  extinguished — out 
of  the  ashes  rises  the  phoenix  Lord  Vargravc.  We  had  thought 
of  a  more  sounding  title  ;  De  Courval  has  a  nobler  sound, — but 
my  good  uncle  has  nothing  of  the  Norman  about  him  :  so  we 
dropped  the  De  as  ridiculous — Vargrave  is  euphonious  and 
appropriate.  My  uncle  has  a  manor  of  that  name — Baron 
Vargrave  of  Vargrave." 

"Ah — I  congratulate  you." 

**  Thank  you.  Lady  Vargrave  may  destroy  all  my  hopes  yet. 
But  nothing  venture,  nothing  have.     My  uncle  will  be  gazetted 


272  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

to-day.  Poor  man,  he  will  be  delighted  ;  and  as  he  certainly 
owes  it  much  to  me,  he  will,  I  suppose,  be  very  grateful — or 
hate  me  ever  afterwards — that  is  a  toss-up.  A  benefit  conferred 
is  a  complete  hazard  between  the  thumb  of  pride  and  the  fore- 
finger of  affection.  Heads  gratitude,  tails  hatred  !  There,  that's 
a  simile  in  the  fashion  of  the  old  writers;  'Well  of  English 
undefiled  ! '  humph  !  " 

"So  that  beautiful  child  is  Mrs.  Templeton's,  or  rather  Lady 
Vargrave's,  daughter  by  a  former  marriage?"  said  Maltravers, 
abstractedly. 

"Yes,  it  is  astonishing  how  fond  he  is  of  her.  Pretty  little 
creature — confoundedly  artful,  though.  By  the  way,  Maltravers, 
we  had  an  unexpectedly  stormy  night  the  last  of  the  session — 
strong  division — ministers  hard  pressed.  I  made  quite  a  good 
speech  for  them.  I  suppose,  however,  there  will  be  some  change — 
the  moderates  will  be  taken  in.  Perhaps  by  next  session  I  may 
congratulate  you." 

Ferrers  looked  hard  at  Maltravers  while  he  spoke.  But  Ernest 
replied  coldly  and  evasively,  and  they  were  now  joined  by  a 
party  of  idlers,  lounging  along  the  lawn  in  expectation  of  the 
first  dinner  bell.  Cleveland  was  in  high  consultation  about  the 
proper  spot  for  a  new  fountain  ;  and  he  summoned  Maltravers 
to  give  his  opinion  whether  it  should  spring  from  the  centre  of  a 
flower-bed  or  beneath  the  drooping  shade  of  a  large  willow. 
While  this  interesting  discussion  was  going  on,  P'errers  drew 
aside  his  cousin,  and,  pressing  her  hand  affectionately,  said,  in  a 
soft  and  tender  voice  : 

"  My  dear  Florence — for  in  such  a  time  permit  me  to  be 
familiar — I  understand  from  Lord  Saxingham,  whom  I  met  in 
London,  that  you  are  engaged  to  Maltravers.  Busy  as  I  was,  I 
Could  not  rest  without  coming  hither  to  offer  my  best  and  most 
earnest  wish  for  your  happiness.  I  may  seem  a  careless,  I  am 
considered  a  selfish,  person  ;  but  my  heart  is  warm  to  those  who 
really  interest  it.  And  never  did  brother  offer  up  for  the  welfare 
of  a  beloved  sister  prayers  more  anxious  and  fond  than  those 
that  poor  Lumley  Ferrers  breathes  for  Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  was  startled  and  melted — the  whole  tone  and  manner 
of  Lumley  was  so  different  from  those  he  usually  assumed. 
She  warmly  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked  him 
briefly,  but  with  emotion. 

"No  one  is  great  and  good  enough  for  you,  Florence,"  con- 
tinued Ferrers — "no  one.  But  I  admire  your  disinterested  and 
generous  choice.  Maltravers  and  I  have  not  been  friends  lately  ; 
but  I  respect  him,  as  all  must.     He  has  noble  qualities,  and  he 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  273 

has  great  ambition.  In  addition  to  the  deep  and  ardent  love 
that  you  cannot  fail  to  inspire,  he  will  owe  you  eternal  gratitude. 
In  this  aristocratic  country  your  hand  secures  to  him  the  most 
brilliant  fortunes,  the  most  proud  career.  His  talents  will  now 
be  measured  by  a  very  different  standard.  His  merits  will  not 
pass  through  any  subordinate  grades,  but  leap  at  once  into  the 
highest  posts ;  and,  as  he  is  even  more  proud  than  ambitious, 
how  he  must  bless  one  who  raises  him,  without  effort,  into  posi- 
tions of  eminent  command  !  " 

"Oh,  he  does  not  think  of  such  worldly  advantages — he,  the 
too  pure,  the  too  refined!"  said  Florence,  with  trembling  eager- 
ness.    "  He  has  no  avarice,  nothing  mercenary  in  his  nature  ! " 

"No  ;  there  you  indeed  do  him  justice, — there  is  not  a  particle 
of  baseness  in  his  mind — I  did  not  say  there  was.  The  very 
greatness  of  his  aspirations,  his  indignant  and  scornful  pride, 
lift  him  above  the  thought  of  your  wealth,  your  rank, — except 
as  means  to  an  end." 

"  You  mistake  still,"  said  Florence,  faintly  smiling,  but  turn- 
ing pale. 

"No,"  resumed  Ferrers,  not  appearing  to  hear  her,  and  as  if 
pursuing  his  own  thoughts.  "I  always  predicted  that  Mal- 
travers  would  make  a  distinguished  connection  in  marriage. 
He  would  not  permit  himself  to  love  the  low-born  or  poor. 
His  affections  are  in  his  pride  as  much  as  in  his  heart.  He  is 
a  great  creature — you  have  judged  wisely — and  may  Heaven 
bless  you  ! " 

With  these  words  Ferrers  left  her,  and  Florence,  when  she 
descended  to  dinner,  wore  a  moody  and  clouded  brow.  Ferrers 
stayed  three  days  at  the  house.  He  was  peculiarly  cordial  to 
Maltravers,  and  spoke  little  to  Florence.  But  that  little  never 
failed  to  leave  upon  her  mind  a  jealous  and  anxious  irritability, 
to  which  she  yielded  with  morbid  facility.  In  order  perfectly  to 
understand  Florence  Lascelles,  it  mnst  be  remembered  that, 
with  all  her  dazzling  qualities,  she  was  not  what  is  called  a 
lovable  person.  A  certain  hardness  in  her  disposition,  even 
as  a  child,  had  prevented  her  winding  into  the  hearts  of  those 
around  her.  Deprived  of  her  mother's  care — having  little  or 
no  intercourse  with  children  of  her  own  age — brought  up  with 
a  starched  governess,  or  female  relations,  poor  and  proud — she 
never  had  contracted  the  softness  of  manner  which  the  recipro- 
cation of  household  affections  usually  produces.  With  a  haughty 
consciousness  of  her  powers,  her  birth,  her  position,  advantages 
always  dinned  into  her  ear,  she  grew  up  solitary,  unsocial,  and 
imperious.     Her  father  was  rather  proud  than  fond  of  her— 


ij4  fekNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

her  servants  did  not  love  her — she  had  too  little  consideration 
for  others,  too  little  blandness  and  suavity  to  be  loved  by  in- 
feriors— she  was  too  learned  and  too  stern  to  find  pleasure  in 
the  conversation  and  society  of  young  ladies  of  her  own  age  : — 
she  had  no  friends.  Now,  having  really  strong  affections,  she 
felt  all  this,  but  rather  with  resentment  than  grief — she  longed 
to  be  loved,  but  did  not  seek  to  be  so — she  felt  as  if  it  was  her 
fate  not  to  be  loved — she  blamed  fate,  not  herself. 

When,  with  all  the  proud,  pure,  and  generous  candor  of  her 
nature,  she  avowed  to  Ernest  her  love  for  him,  she  naturally 
expected  the  most  ardent  and  passionate  return  ;  nothing  less 
could  content  her.  But  the  habit  and  experience  of  all  the 
past  made  her  eternally  suspicious  that  she  was  not  loved  ;  it 
was  wormwood  and  poison  for  her  to  fancy  that  Maltravers  had 
ever  considered  her  advantages  of  fortune,  except  as  a  bar  to 
his  pretensions  and  a  check  on  his  passion.  It  was  the  same 
thing  to  her  whether  it  was  the  pettiest  avarice  or  the  loftiest 
aspirations  that  actuated  her  lover,  if  he  had  been  actuated  in 
his  heart  by  any  sentiment  but  love  ;  and  Ferrers,  to  whose  eyes 
her  foibles  were  familiar,  knew  well  how  to  make  his  praises  of 
Ernest  arouse  against  Ernest  all  her  exacting  jealousies  and 
irritable  doubts. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he,  one  evening,  as  he  was  conversing 
with  Florence,  "how  complete  and  triumphant  a  conquest  you 
have  effected  over  Ernest !  Will  you  believe  it  ? — he  conceived 
a  prejudice  against  you  when  he  first  saw  you — he  even  said 
that  you  were  made  to  be  admired,  not  to  be  loved." 

"  Ha  ! — did  he  so  ? — true,  true — he  has  almost  said  the  same 
thing  to  me." 

"  But  now  how  he  must  love  you !  Surely  he  has  all  the 
signs." 

"And  what  are  the  signs, most  learned  Luraley  ?"  said  Flor- 
ence, forcing  a  smile. 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  will  doubtless  observe  that  he 
never  takes  his  eyes  from  you — with  whomsoever  he  converses, 
whatever  his  occupation,  those  eyes,  restless  and  pining,  wan- 
der around  for  one  glance  from  you." 

Florence  sighed,  and  looked  up  ;  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
her  lover  was  conversing  with  Cleveland,  and  his  eyes  never 
wandered  in  search  of  her. 

Ferrers  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  practical  contradiction  of 
his  theory,  but  went  on. 

"  Then  surely  his  whole  character  is  changed — that  brow  has 
lost  its  calm  majesty,  that  deep  voice  its  assured  and  tranquil 


fefttifeST   MALTRAVEkS.  i^$ 

tone.  Has  he  not  become  more  humble,  and  embarrassed,  and 
fretful,  living  only  on  your  smile,  reproachful  if  you  look  upon 
another — sorrowful  if  your  lip  be  less  smiling — a  thing  of  doubt 
and  dread,  and  trembling  agitation — slave  to  a  shadow — no 
longer  lord  of  the  creation  ?  Such  is  love,  such  is  the  love  you 
should  inspire,  such  is  the  love  Maltravers  is  capable  of — for  I 
have  seen  him  testify  it  to  another.  But,"  added  Lumley, 
quickly,  and  as  if  afraid  he  had  said  too  much,  "  Lord  Saxing- 
ham  is  looking  out  for  me  to  make  up  his  whist-table.  I  go 
to-morrow — when  shall  you  be  in  town  ?  " 

*'  In  the  course  of  the  week,"  said  Florence,  mechanically  ; 
and  Lumley  walked  away. 

In  another  moment,  Maltravers,  who  had  been  more  obser- 
vant than  he  seemed,  joined  her  where  she  sat. 

"Dear  Florence,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "you  look  pale — I  fear 
you  are  not  well  this  evening." 

"  No  affectation  of  an  interest  you  do  not  feel,  pray,"  said 
Florence,  with  a  scornful  lip  but  swimming  eyes. 

"Do  not  feel,  Florence  !  " 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  at  least,  that  you  have  observed  whether 
I  am  well  or  ill.     But  it  is  no  matter." 

"  My  dear  Florence, — why  this  tone? — how  have  I  offended 
you?     Has  Lumley  said — " 

"Nothing  but  in  your  praise.  Oh, be  not  afraid, you  are  one 
of  those  of  whom  all  speak  highly.  But  do  not  let  me  detain 
you  here !  let  us  join  our  host — you  have  left  him  alone." 

Lady  Florence  waited  for  no  reply,  nor  did  Maltravers  attempt 
to  detain  her.  He  looked  pained,  and  when  she  turned  round 
to  catch  a  glance,  that  she  hoped  would  be  reproachful,  he  was 
gone.  Lady  Florence  became  nervous  and  uneasy,  talked  she 
knew  not  what,  and  laughed  hysterically.  She,  however,  de- 
ceived Cleveland  into  the  notion  that  she  was  in  the  best  possi- 
ble spirits. 

By-and-by  she  rose,  and  passed  through  the  suite  of  rooms  : 
her  heart  was  with  Maltravers — still  he  was  not  visible.  At 
length  she  entered  the  conservatory,  and  there  she  observed 
him,  through  the  open  casement,'walking  slowly,  and  with  folded 
arms,  upon  the  moonlit  lawn.  There  was  a  short  struggle  in 
her  breast  between  woman's  pride  and  woman's  love  ;  the  last 
conquered,  and  she  joined  him. 

"  Forgive  me,  Ernest,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand,  "  I  was 
to  blame." 

Ernest  kissed  the  fair  hand,  and  answered  touchingly  : 

"  Florence,  you  have  the  power  to  wound  me  ;  be  forbearing 


i'j6  £kNEST   MALTRAVeRS. 

in  its  exercise.  Heaven  knows  that  I  would  not,  from  the  vain 
desire  of  showing  command  over  you,  inflict  upon  you  a  single 
pang.  Ah  !  do  not  fancy  that  in  lover's  quarrels  there  is  any 
sweetness  that  compensates  the  sting." 

"  I  told  you  I  was  too  exacting,  Ernest.  I  told  you,  you  Would 
not  love  me  so  well  when  you  knew  me  better." 

"  And  were  a  false  prophetess.  Florence,  every  day,  every 
hour  I  love  you  more — better  than  I  once  thought  I  could." 

"Then,"  cried  this  wayward  girl,  anxious  to  pain  herself, 
"  then  once  you  did  not  love  me  ? " 

"  Florence,  I  will  be  candid — I  did  not.  You  are  now  rapidly 
obtaining  an  empire  over  me,  greater  than  my  reason  should 
allow.  But,  beware :  if  my  love  be  really  a  possession  you 
desire, — beware  how  you  arm  my  reason  against  you.  Florence, 
I  am  a  proud  man.  My  very  consciousness  of  the  more  splen- 
did alliances  you  could  form  renders  me  less  humble  a  lover 
than  you  might  find  in  others.  I  were  not  worthy  of  you  if  I 
were  not  tenacious  of  my  self-respect." 

"Ah  ! "  said  Florence,  to  whose  heart  these  words  went  home, 
"forgive  me  but  this  once.     I  shall  not  forgive  myself  so  soon." 

And  Ernest  drew  her  to  his  heart,  and  felt  that  ,with  all  her 
faults,  a  woman  whom  he  feared  he  could  not  render  as  happy 
as  her  sacrifices  to  him  deserved  was  becoming  very  dear  to 
him.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  she  was  not  formed  to  render 
At'm  happy  ;  but  that  was  not  his  thought,  his  fear.  Her  love 
had  rooted  out  all  thought  of  self  from  that  generous  breast. 
His  only  anxiety  was  to  requite  Aer. 

They  walked  along  the  sward,  silent,  thoughtful ;  and  Flor- 
ence melancholy,  yet  blessed. 

"  That  serene  heaven,  those  lovely  stars,"  said  Maltravers  at 
last,  "do  they'not  preach  to  us  the  Philosophy  of  Peace  ?  Do 
they  not  tell  us  how  much  of  calm  belongs  to  the  dignity  of 
man  and  the  sublime  essence  of  the  soul  ?  Petty  distractions 
and  self-wrought  cares  are  not  congenial  to  our  real  nature ; 
their  very  disturbance  is  a  proof  that  they  are  at  war  with  our 
natures.  Ah,  sweet  Florence,  let  us  learn  from  yon  skies,  over 
which,  in  the  faith  of  the  Poets  of  old,  brooded  the  wings  of 
primeval  and  serenest  Love,  what  earthly  love  should  be, — a 
thing  pure  as  light  and  peaceful  as  immortality,  watching  over 
the  stormy  world,  that  it  shall  survive,  and  high  above  the  clouds 
and  vapors  that  roll  below.  Let  little  minds  introduce  into 
the  holiest  of  affections  all  the  bitterness  and  tumult  of  common 
life  !  Let  us  love  as  beings  who  will  one  day  be  inhabitants  of 
the  stars ! " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  277 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  A  slippery  and  subtle  knave  ;  a  finder-out  of  occasions;  that  has  an  eye 
can  stamp  and  counterfeit  advantages." — Othello. 

"  Knavery's  plain  face  is  never  seen  till  used." — /l>iJ. 

"You  see,  my  dear  Luniley,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  as  the 
next  day  the  two  kinsmen  were  on  their  way  to  London  in  the 
Earl's  chariot,  "you  see  that,  at  the  best,  this  marriage  of  Flory's 
is  a  cursed  bore." 

"  Why,  indeed,  it  has  its  disadvantages.  Maltravers  is  a  gentle- 
man and  a  man  of  genius;  but  gentlemen  are  plentiful,  and  his 
genius  only  tells  against  us,  since  he  is  not  even  of  our  politics." 

*'  Exactly,  my  own  son-in-law  voting  against  me  ! " 

"  A  practicable,  reasonable  man  would  change  :  not  so  Mal- 
travers— and  all  the  estates,  and  all  the  parliamentary  influence, 
and  all  the  wealth  that  ought  to  go  with  the  family  and  with  the 
party,  go  out  of  the  family  and  against  the  party.  You  are  quite 
right,  my  dear  lord — it  is  a  cursed  bore." 

"And  she  might  have  had  the  Duke  of ,  a  man  with  a 

rental  of  ^^100,000  a  year.  It  is  too  ridiculous. — This  Mal- 
travers,— d — d  disagreeable  fellow,  too,  eh?" 

"Stiff  and  stately — much  changed  for  the  worse  of  late 
years — grown  conceited  and  set  up." 

"Do  you  know,  Lumley,  I  would  rather,  of  the  two,  have 
had  you  for  my  son-in-law." 

Lumley  half  started.  "  Are  you  serious,  my  lord  ?  I  have 
not  Ernest's  fortune — I  cannot  make  such  settlements :  my 
lineage  too,  at  least  on  my  mother's  side,  is  less  ancient." 

"Oh,  as  to  settlements,  Flory's  fortune  ought  to  be  settled  on 
herself, — and  as  compared  with  that  fortune,  what  could  Mal- 
travers pretend  to  settle  ?  Neither  she  nor  any  children  s!ie  may 
have  could  want  his;^4,ooo  a  year,if  he  settled  it  all.  Asfor  family, 
connections  tell  more  nowadays  than  Norman  descent, — and  for 
the  rest,  you  are  likely  to  be  old  Templeton's  heir,  to  have  a  peer- 
age (a  large  sum  of  ready  money  is  always  useful) — are  rising  in 
the  House — one  of  our  own  set — will  soon  be  in  office — and,  flat- 
tery apart,  a  devilish  good  fellow  into  the  bargain.  Oh,  I  would 
sooner  a  thousand  times  that  Flory  had  taken  a  fancy  to  you  !  " 

Lumley  Ferrers  bowed  his  head,  but  said  nothing.  He  fell 
into  a  reverie,  and  Lord  Saxingham  took  up  his  official  red  box, 
became  deep  in  its  contents,  and  forgot  all  about  the  marriage 
of  his  daughter. 

Luniley  pulled  the  Qhe<?k-string  as  the  carriage  entered  Pall 


278  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Mall,  and  desired  to  be  set  down  at  "The  Travellers'."  While 
Lord  Saxingham  was  borne  on  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the  nation, 
not  being  able  to  settle  those  of  his  own  household,  Ferrers  was 
inquiring  the  address  of  Castruccio  Cesarini.  The  porter  was 
unable  to  give  it  him.  The  Signor  generally  called  every  day 
for  his  notes,  but  no  one  at  the  club  knew  where  he  lodged. 
Ferrers  wrote,  and  left  with  the  porter,  a  line  requesting  Cesarini 
to  call  on  him  as  soon  as  possible,  and  bent  his  way  to  his  house 
in  Great  George  Street.  He  went  straight  into  his  library,  un- 
locked his  escritoire,  and  took  out  that  letter  which,  the  reader  will 
remember,  Maltravers  had  written  to  Cesarini,  and  which  Lumley 
had  secured ;  carefully  did  he  twice  read  over  this  effusion,  and  the 
second  time  his  face  brightened  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  It  is  now 
time  to  lay  this  letter  before  the  reader :  it  ran  thus : 

^^ Private  and  Confidential." 
"My  dear  Cesarini: — 

"The  assurance  of  your  friendly  feelings  is  most  welcome  to 
me.  In  much  of  what  you  say  of  marriage,  I  am  inclined,  though 
with  reluctance,  to  agree.  As  to  Lady  Florence  herself,  few  per- 
sons are  more  calculated  to  dazzle,  perhaps  to  fascinate.  But  is 
she  a  person  to  make  a  home  happy — to  sympathize  where  she 
has  been  accustomed  to  command — to  comprehend,  and  to  yield 
to  the  waywardness  and  irritability  common  to  our  fanciful  and 
morbid  race — to  content  herself  with  the  homage  of  a  single 
heart  ?  I  do  not  know  her  enough  to  decide  the  question;  but 
I  know  aer  enough  to  feel  deep  solicitude  and  anxiety  for  your 
happiness,  if  centred  in  a  nature  so  imperious  and  so  vain.  But 
you  will  remind  me  of  my  fortune,  her  station.  You  will  say 
that  such  are  the  sources  from  which,  to  an  ambitious  mind, 
happiness  may  well  be  drawn  !  Alas  !  I  fear  that  the  man  who 
marries  Lady  Florence  must  indeed  confine  his  dreams  of 
felicity  to  those  harsh  and  disappointing  realities.  But,  Cesarini, 
these  are  not  the  words  which,  were  we  more  intimate,  I  would 
address  to  you.  I  doubt  the  reality  of  those  affections  which 
you  ascribe  to  her,  and  suppose  devoted  to  yourself.  She  is 
evidently  fond  of  conquest.  She  sports  with  the  victims  she 
makes.  Her  vanity  dupes  others, — perhaps  to  be  duped  itself 
at  last.  I  will  not  say  more  to  you. 
"Yours, 

"E.  Maltravers." 

"Hurrah  l"  cried  Ferrers,  as  he  threw  down  the  letter,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  with  delight.  "  I  little  thought,  when  I 
schemed  for  thi§  letter,  that  chance  would  make  it  sq  inestim- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  279 

ably  serviceable.  There  is  less  to  alter  than  I  thought  for — 
the  clumsiest  botcher  in  the  world  could  manage  it.  Let  me 
look  again. — Hem,  hem — the  first  phrase  to  alter  is  this:  ^I 
know  her  enough  to  feel  deep  solicitude  and  anxiety  for  your 
happiness,  if  centred  in  a  nature  so  imperious  and  vain' — 
scratch  out 'your,*  and  put 'my.'  All  the  rest  good,  good — 
till  we  come  to  '  affections  which  you  ascribe  to  her,  and  sup- 
pose devoted  io  yourself — for  ^yourseM'  write  'v/^self — the 
rest  will  do.  Now,  then,  the  date — we  must  change  it  to  the 
present  month,  and  the  work  is  done.  I  wish  that  Italian  block- 
head would  come.  If  I  can  but  once  make  an  irreparable 
breach  between  her  and  Maltravers,  I  think  I  cannot  fail  of 
securing  his  place  ;  her  pique,  her  resentment,  will  hurry  her 
into  taking  the  first  who  offers,  by  way  of  revenge.  And,  by 
Jupiter,  even  if  I  fail  (which  I  am  sure  I  shall  not),  it  will  be 
something  to  keep  Flory  as  lady  paramount  for  a  duke  of  our 
own  party.  I  shall  gain  immensely  by  such  a  connection  ;  but 
I  lose  everything  and  gain  nothing  by  her  marrying  Maltravers 
— of  opposite  politics  too — whom  I  begin  to  hate  like  poison. 
But  no  duke  shall  have  her — Florence  Ferrers,  the  only  allitera- 
tion I  ever  liked — yet  it  would  sound  rough  in  poetry." 

LumJpy  then  deliberately  drew  towards  him  his  inkstand — 
"  No  penknife  ! — Ah,  true,  I  never  mend  pens — sad  waste — 
must  send  out  for  one."  He  rang  the  bell,  ordered  a  penknife 
to  be  purchased,  and  the  servant  was  still  out  when  a  knock  at 
the  door  was  heard,  and  in  a  minute  more  Cesarini  entered. 

"Ah,"  said  Lumley,  assuming  a  melancholy  air,  "I  am  glad 
that  you  are  arrived;  you  will  excuse  my  having  written  to  you 
so  unceremoniously.  You  received  my  note — sit  down,  pray — 
and  how  are  you  ? — you  look  delicate — can  I  offer  you  anything  ?" 

"Wine,"  said  Cesarini,  laconically,  "wine;  your  climate 
requires  wine." 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  penknife,  and  was  ordered 
to  bring  wine  and  sandwiches.  Lumley  then  conversed  lightly 
on  different  matters  till  the  wine  appeared  ;  he  was  rather  sur- 
prised to  observe  Cesarini  pour  out  and  drink  off  glass  upon 
glass,  with  an  evident  craving  for  the  excitement.  When  he 
had  satisfied  himself,  he  turned  his  dark  eyes  to  Ferrers,  and 
said,  "  You  have  news  to  communicate,  I  see  it  in  your  brow. 
I  am  now  ready  to  hear  all." 

"  Well,  then,  listen  to  me  ;  you  were  right  in  your  suspicions; 
jealousy  is  ever  a  true  diviner.  I  make  no  doubt  Othello  was 
quite  right,  and  Desdemona  was  no  better  than  she  should  be. 
Maltravers  has  proposed  to  my  cousin  and  been  accepted," 


28o  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Cesarini's  complexion  grew  perfectly  ghastly ;  his  whole  frame 
shook  like  a  leaf — for  a  moment  he  seemed  paralyzed. 

"  Curse  him  !  "  said  he,  at  last,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  and 
betwixt  his  grinded  teeth — "  curse  him,  from  the  depths  of  the 
heart  he  has  broken  !  " 

"And  after  such  a  letter  to  you! — do  you  remember  it? — 
here  it  is.  He  warns  you  against  Lady  Florence,  and  then 
secures  her  to  himself — is  this  treachery  ?" 

"  Treachery,  black  as  hell !  I  am  an  Italian,"  cried  Cesarini, 
springing  to  his  feet,  and  with  all  the  passions  of  his  climate  in 
his  face,  "and  I  will  be  avenged  !  Bankrupt  in  fortune,  ruined 
in  hopes,  blasted  in  heart — I  have  still  the  godlike  consolation 
of  the  desperate — I  have  revenge." 

"Will  you  call  him  out  ?"  asked  Lumley,  musingly  and  calmly. 
"Are  you  a  dead  shot  ?  If  so,  it  is  worth  thinking  about ;  if  not, 
it  is  a  mockery — your  shot  misses,  his  goes  in  the  air,  seconds 
interpose,  and  you  both  walk  away  devilish  glad  to  get  off  so 
well.     Duels  are  humbug." 

"  Mr.  Ferrers,"  said  Cesarini,  fiercely,  "  this  is  not  a  matter 
of  jest." 

"I  do  not  make  it  a  jest;  and  what  is  more,  Cesarini,"  said 
Ferrers,  with  a  concentrated  energy  far  more  commanding  than 
the  Italian's  fury,  "what  is  more,  I  so  detest  Maltravers,  I  am 
so  stung  by  his  cold  superiority,  so  wroth  with  his  success,  so 
loathe  the  thought  of  his  alliance,  that  I  would  cut  off  this  hand 
to  frustrate  that  marriage !  I  do  not  jest,  man  ;  but  I  have 
method  and  sense  in  my  hatred — it  is  our  English  way." 

Cesarini  stared  at  the  speaker  gloomily,  clenched  his  hand, 
muttered,  and  strode  rapidly  to  and  fro  the  room. 

"You  would  be  avenged,  so  would  I.  Now  what  shall  be  the 
means?"  said  Ferrers. 

"I  will  stab  him  to  the  heart — I  will — " 

"Cease  these  tragic  flights.  Nay, frown  and  stamp  not  ;  but 
sit  down  and  be  reasonable,  or  leave  me,  and  act  for  yourself." 

"Sir,"  said  Cesarini,  with  an  eye  that  might  have  alarmed  a 
man  less  resolute  than  Ferrers,"  "have  a  care  how  you  presume 
on  my  distress." 

"  You  are  in  distress,  and  refuse  relief  ;  you  are  bankrupt  in 
fortune,  and  you  rave  like  a  poet,  when  you  should  be  devising 
and  plotting  for  the  attainment  of  boundless  wealth.  Revenge 
and  ambition  may  both  be  yours  ;  but  they  are  prizes  never  won 
but  by  a  cautious  foot  as  well  as  a  bold  hand." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?  and  what  but  his  life  would 
content  me?" 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  281 

"  Take  his  life  if  you  can — I  have  no  objection — go  and  take 
it ;  only  just  observe  this,  if  you  miss  your  aim,  or  he,  being  the 
stronger  man,  strike  you  down,  you  will  be  locked  up  in  a  mad- 
house for  the  next  year  or  two,  at  least ;  and  that  ic  not  the 
place  in  which  I  should  like  to  pass  the  winter — but  as  you  will."  ■ 

"You! — you! — But  what  are  you  to  me?  I  will  go.  Good 
day,  sir." 

"Stay  a  moment,"  said  Ferrers,  when  he  sawCesarini  about 
to  leave  the  room  ;  "  stay,  take  this  chair,  and  listen  to  me — 
you  had  better — " 

Cesarini  hesitated,  and  then,  as  it  were,  mechanically  obeyed. 

"  Read  that  letter,  which  Maltravers  wrote  to  you.  You  have 
finished — well — now  observe — if  Florence  sees  that  letter,  she 
will  not  and  cannot  marry  the  man  who  wrote  it — you  must 
show  it  to  her.^ 

"Ah,  my  guardian  angel,  I  see  it  all!  Yes,  there  are  words 
in  this  letter  no  woman  so  proud  could  ever  pardon.  Give  it  to 
me  again,  I  will  go  at  once." 

"Pshaw  !  you  are  too  quick;  you  have  not  remarked  that  this 
letter  was  written  five  months  ago,  before  Maltravers  knew  much 
of  Lady  Florence.  He  himself  has  confessed  to  her  that  he  did 
not  then  love  her — so  much  the  more  would  she  value  the  con- 
quest she  has  now  achieved.  Florence  would  smile  at  this  letter 
and  say,  *  Ah,  he  judges  me  differently  now.'  " 

"  Are  you  seeking  to  madden  me  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Did 
you  not  just  say  that,  did  she  see  that  letter,  she  would  never 
marry  the  writer?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  the  letter  must  be  altered.  We  must  erase  the 
date  ;  we  must  date  it  from  to-day ; — to-day — Maltravers  re- 
turns to-day.  We  must  suppose  it  written,  not  in  answer  to  a 
letter  from  you,  demanding  his  advice  and  opinion  as  to  your 
marriage  with  Lady  Florence,  but  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  yours 
in  which  you  congratulate  him  on  his  approaching  marriage  to 
her.  By  the  substitution  of  one  pronoun  for  another,  in  two 
places,  the  letter  will  read  as  well  one  way  as  another.  Read  it 
again,  and  see  ;  or  stop,  I  will  be  the  lecturer." 

Here  Ferrers  read  over  the  letter,  which,  by  the  trifling 
substitutions  he  proposed,  might  indeed  bear  the  character  he 
wished  to  give  it. 

"Does  the  light  break  upon  you  now?"  said  Ferrers.  "Are 
you  prepared  to  go  through  a  part  that  requires  subtlety,  deli- 
cacy, address,  and,  above  all,  self-control? — qualities  that  are 
the  common  attributes  of  your  countrymen." 

"I  will  do  all,  fear  me  not.     It  may  be  villainous,  it  may  be 


282  fefeNESt   MALTRAVEHS. 

base  ;  but  I  cate  not,  Maltravers  shall  not  rival,  master,  eclipse 
me  in  all  things." 

"Where  are  you  lodging?" 

"Where? — out  of  town  a  little  way," 

"  Take  up  your  home  with  me  for  a  few  days.  I  cannot  trust 
you  out  of  my  sight.  Send  for  your  luggage ;  I  have  a  room  at 
your  service." 

Cesarini  at  first  refused ;  but  a  man  who  resolves  on  a  crime 
feels  the  awe  of  solitude  and  the  necessity  of  a  companion.  He 
went  himself  to  bring  his  effects  and  promised  to  return  to  dinner. 

*'  I  must  own,"  said  Lumley,  resettling  himself  at  his  desk,  "  this 
is  the  dirtiest  trick  that  ever  I  played  ;  but  the  glorious  end 
sanctifies  the  paltry  means.  After  all,  it  is  tlie  mere  prejudice 
of  gentlemanlike  education." 

A  few  seconds,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  knife  to  erase,  and  the 
pen  to  rewrite,  Ferrers  completed  his  task,  with  the  exception 
of  the  change  of  date,  which  on  second  thoughts,  he  reserved 
as  a  matter  to  be  regulated  by  circumstances. 

"I  think  I  have  hit  off  hh  m's  andjv's  tolerably,"  said  he, 
"  considering  I  was  not  brought  up  to  this  sort  of  thing.  But 
the  alteration- would  be  visible  on  close  inspection.  Cesarini 
must  read  the  letter  to  hor,  then  if  she  glances  over  it  herself  it 
will  be  with  bewildered  eyes  and  a  dizzy  brain.  Above  all,  he 
must  not  leave  it  with  her,  and  must  bind  her  to  the  closest  se- 
crecy. She  is  honorable,  and  will  keep  her  word  ;  and  so  now 
that  matter  is  settled.  I  have  just  time  before  dinner  to  canter 
down  to  my  uncle's  and  v/ish  the  old  fellow  joy." 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  And  then  my  lord  has  much  that  he  would  state 
All  good  to  you." — Crabbe  :  7a/es  of  the  Heart. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  sitting  alone  in  his  library,  with  his  ac- 
count-books before  him.  Carefully  did  he  cast  up  the  various 
sums  which,  invested  in  various  speculations,  swelled  his  in- 
come. The  result  seemed  satisfactory — and  the  rich  man  threw 
down  his  pen  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  I  will  invest  jr\  20,000  in 
land — only  ^120,000.  I  will  not  be  tempted  to  sink  more.  I 
will  have  a  fine  house — a  house  fitting  for  a  nobleman — a  fine 
old  Elizabethan  house — a  house  of  historical  interest.  I  must 
have  woods  and  lakes — and  a  deer-park,  above  all.  Deer  are 
very  gentlemanlike  things,  very.  De  Clifford's  place  is  to  be 
sold,  I  know ;  they  ask  too  much  for  it,  but   ready  money 


ERNEST   MALTkAVERS.  283 

IS  tempting.  I  can  bargain — bargain,  I  am  a  good  hand  at  a 
bargain. — Should  I  be  now  Lord  Baron  Vargrave  if  I  had  always 
given  people  what  they  asked  ?  I  will  double  my  subscriptions 
to  the  Bible  Society  and  the  Philanthropic,  and  the  building  of 
new  churches.  The  world  shall  not  say  Richard  Templeton 
does  not  deserve  his  greatness.  I  will — Come  in.  Who's 
there — come  in." 

The  door  gently  opened — the  meek  face  of  the  new  peeress 
appeared.     *'  I  disturb  you — I  beg  your  pardon — I — " 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,  come  in — I  want  to  talk  to  you — I  want 
to  talk  to  your  ladyship — sit  down,  pray." 

Lady  Vargrave  obeyed. 

"You  see,"  said  the  peer,  crossing  his  legs  and  caressing  his 
left  foot  with  both  hands,  while  he  see-sawed  his  stately  person 
to  and  fro  in  his  chair — "You  see  that  the  honor  conferred  upon 
me  will  make  a  great  change  in  our  mode  of  life,  Mrs.  Temple — 
I  mean  Lady  Vargrave.  This  villa  is  all  very  well — my  country 
house  is  not  amiss  for  a  country  gentleman-^but  now  we  must 
support  our  rank.  The  landed  estate  I  already  possess  will  go 
with  the  title — go  to  Lumley — I  shall  buy  another  at  my  own 
disposal,  one  that  I  can  feel  thoroughly  mine — it  shall  be  a  splen- 
did place.  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  This  place  is  splendid  to  me,"  said  Lady  Vargrave  timidly. 

"This  place!  nonsense — you  must  learn  loftier  ideas,  Lady 
Vargrave  ;  you  are  young,  you  can  easily  contract  new  habits, 
more  easily,  perhaps,  than  myself — you  are  naturally  ladylike, 
though  I  say  it — you  have  good  taste,  you  don't  talk  much,  you 
don't  show  your  ignorance — quite  right.  You  must  be  presented 
at  court.  Lady  Vargrave — we  must  give  great  dinners.  Lady  Var- 
grave. Balls  are  sinful,  so  is  the  opera, — at  least  I  fear  so — yet 
an  opera-box  would  be  a  proper  appendage  to  your  rank,  Lady 
Vargrave." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton — " 

"  Lord  Vargrave,  if  your  ladyship  pleases." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  May  you  live  long  to  enjoy  your  honors; 
but  I,  my  dear  lord — I  am  not  fit  to  share  them  :  it  is  only  in  our 
quiet  life  that  I  can  forget  what — what  I  was.  You  terrify  me, 
when  you  talk  of  court — of — " 

"  Stuff,  Lady  Vargrave  !  stuff;  we  accustom  ourselves  to  these 
things.  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  has  stood  behind  a  counter? — 
rank  is  a  glove  that  stretches  to  the  hand  that  wears  it.  And 
the  child,  dear  child, — dear  Evelyn,  she  shall  be  the  admiration 
of  London,  the  beauty,  the  heiress,  the — oh,  she  will  do  me 
honor ! " 


284  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  She  will,  she  will  !  "  said  Lady  Vargrave,  and  the  tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  softened. 

"  No  mother  ever  deserved  more  from  a  child  than  you  from 
Evelyn." 

"I  would  hope  I  have  done  my  duty,"  said  Lady  Vargrave, 
drying  her  tears. 

**  Papa,  papa !  "  cried  an  impatient  voice,  tapping  at  the  win- 
dow, "come  and  play,  papa — come  and  play  at  ball,  papa !" 

And  there  by  the  window  stood  that  beautiful  child,  glowing 
with  health  and  mirth — her  light  hair  tossed  from  her  forehead, 
her  sweet  mouth  dimpled  with  smiles. 

*■  My  darling,  go  on  the  lawn, — don't  over-exert  yourself — you 
have  not  quite  recovered  that  horrid  sprain — I  will  join  you  im- 
mediately— bless  you  !  " 

"Don't  be  long,  papa — nobody  plays  as  nicely  as  you  do  ;" 
and,  nodding  and  laughing  from  very  glee,  away  scampered  the 
young  fairy.     Lord  Vargrave  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  nephew — of  Lumley  ? "  said  he 
abruptly. 

"  He  seems  all  that  is  amiable,  frank,  and  kind." 

Lord  Vargrave's  brow  became  thoughtful.  "I  think  so  too," 
he  said,  after  a  short  pause  ;  "and  I  hope  you  will  approve  of 
what  I  mean  to  do.  You  see  Lumley  was  brought  up  to  regard 
himself  as  my  heir — I  owe  something  to  him,  beyond  the  poor 
estate  which  goes  with,  but  never  can  adequately  support,  vty 
title.  Family  honors,  hereditary  rank,  must  be  properly  re- 
garded. But  that  dear  girl — I  shall  leave  her  the  bulk  of  my 
fortune.  Could  we  not  unite  the  fortune  and  the  title?  It 
would  secure  the  rank  to  her,  it  would  incorporate  all  my  de- 
sires— all  my  duties." 

"But,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  with  evident  surprise,  "if  I 
understand  you  rightly,  the  disparity  of  years — " 

"  And  what  then,  what  then.  Lady  Vargrave  ?  Is  there  no 
disparity  of  age  between  us — a  greater  disparity  than  between 
Lumley  and  that  tall  girl?  Lumley  is  a  mere  youth,  a  youth 
still,  five  and  thirty — he  will  be  little  more  than  forty  when 
they  marry ;  I  was  between  fifty  and  sixty  when  I  married  you, 
Lady  Vargrave.  I  don't  like  boy-and-girl  marriages;  a  man 
should  be  older  than  his  wife.  But  you  are  so  romantic,  Lady 
Vargrave.  Besides,  Lumley  is  so  gay  and  good-looking,  and 
wears  so  well.  He  has  been  very  nearly  forming  an- 
other attachment ;  but  that,  I  trust,  is  out  of  his  head  now. 
They   must    like   each   other.      You    will    not    gainsay    me, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  285 

Lady  Vargrave,  and  if  anything  happens  to  me — life  is  un- 
certain." 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  so — my  friend,  my  benefactor  !  " 

"Why,  indeed,"  resumed  his  lordship,  mildly,  "thank 
Heaven,  I  am  very  well — feel  younger  than  I  ever  did — but 
still,  life  is  uncertain  ;  and  if  you  survive  me,  you  will  not 
throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  grand  scheme  ?" 

''I — no,  no — of  course  you  have  the  right  in  all  things  over 
her  destiny  ;  but  so  young,  so  soft-hearted,  if  she  should  love 
one  of  her  own  years — " 

"  Love  ! — pooh  !  love  does  not  come  into  girls'  heads  unless 
it  is  put  there.  We  will  bring  her  up  to  love  Lumley.  I  have 
another  reason — a  cogent  one — our  secret  ! — to  him  it  can  be 
confided — it  should  not  go  out  of  our  family.  Even  in  my 
grave  I  could  not  rest  if  a  slur  were  cast  on  my  respectability — 
my  name." 

Lord  Vargrave  spoke  solemnly  and  warmly  ;  then,  muttering 
to  himself,  "Yes,  it  is  for  the  best,"  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
quitted  the  room.  He  joined  his  stepchild  on  the  lawn.  He 
romped  with  her — he  played  with  her — that  stiff,  stately  man  ! 
— he  laughed  louder  than  she  did,  and  ran  almost  as  fast.  And 
when  she  was  fatigued  and  breathless,  he  made  her  sit  down 
beside  him,  in  a  little  summer-house,  and,  fondly  stroking  down 
her  disordered  tresses,  said,  "  You  tire  me  out,  child ;  I  am 
growing  too  old  to  play  with  you,  Lumley  must  supply  my 
place.     You  love  Lumley  ?" 

"Oh,  dearly,  he  is  so  good-humored,  so  kind;  he  has  given 
me  such  a  beautiful  doll,  with  such  eyes  ! " 

"  You  shall  be  his  little  wife — you  would  like  to  be  his  little 
wife?" 

"  Wife  !  why,  poor  mamma  is  a  wife,  and  she  is  not  so  happy 
as  I  am." 

"Your  mamma  has  bad  health,  my  dear,"  said  Lord  Var- 
grave, a  little  discomposed.  "But  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  a 
wife  and  have  a  carriage  of  your  own,  and  a  fine  house,  and 
jewels,  and  plenty  of  money,  and  be  your  own  mistress;  and 
Lumley  will  love  you  dearly." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  all  that." 

"And  you  would  have  a  protector,  child,  when  I  am  no 
more  !" 

The  tone,  rather  than  the  words,  of  her  stepfather  struck  a 
damp  into  that  childish  heart.  Evelyn  lifted  her  eyes,  gazed 
at  him  earnestly,  and  then,  throwing  her  arms  round  him, 
burst  into  tears. 


286  '  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Lord  Vargrave  wiped  his  own  eyes,  and  covered  her  with 
kisses. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  be  Lumley's  wife,  his  honored  wife,  heiress 
to  my  rank  as  to  my  fortunes." 

"I  will  do  all  that  papa  wishes." 

"You  will  be  Lady  Vargrave  then,  and  Lumley  will  be  your 
husband,"  said  the  stepfather,  impressively.  "  Think  over 
what  I  have  said.  Now  let  us  join  mamma.  But,  as  I  live, 
here  is  Lumley  himself.  However,  it  is  not  yet  the  time  to 
sound  him :  I  hope  that  he  has  no  chance  with  that  Lady 
Florence." 


CHAPTER  VL 

*        *     "  Fair  encounter 
Of  two  most  rare  affections." — Tempest. 

Meanwhile  the  Betrothed  were  on  their  road  to' London. 
The  balmy  and  serene  beauty  of  the  day  had  induced  them  to 
perform  that  short  journey  on  horseback.  It  is  somewhere 
said  that  lovers  are  never  so  handsome  as  in  each  other's  com- 
pany, and  neither  Florence  nor  Ernest  ever  looked  so  well  as 
on  horseback.  There  was  something  in  the  stateliness  and  grace 
of  both,  something  even  in  the  aquiline  outline  of  their  features 
and  the  haughty  bend  of  the  neck,  that  made  a  sort  of  likeness 
between  these  young  persons,  although  there  was  no  comparison 
as  to  their  relative  degrees  of  personal  advantage  ;  the  beauty 
of  Florence  defied  all  comparison.  And  as  they  rode  from 
Cleveland's  porch,  where  the  other  guests  yet  lingering  were 
assembled  to  give  the  farewell  greeting,  there  was  a  general, 
conviction  of  the  happiness  destined  to  the  affianced  ones, — a 
general  impression  that  both  in  mind  and  person  they  were 
eminently  suited  to  each  other.  Their  position  was  that  which 
is  ever  interesting,  even  in  more  ordinary  people,  and  at  that 
moment  they  were  absolutely  popular  with  all  who  gazed  on 
them ;  and  when  the  good  old  Cleveland  turned  away  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  murmured,  "Bless  them  !"  there  was  not 
one  of  the  party  who  would  have  hesitated  to  join  the  prayer, 

Florence  felt  a  nameless  dejection  as  she  quitted  a  spot  so 
consecrated  by  grateful  recollections. 

"When  shall  we  be  again  so  happy  ?"  said  she  softly,  as  she 
turned  back  to  gaze  upon  the  landscape,  which,  gay  with 
flowers  and  shrubs  and  the  bright  English  verdure,  smiled 
behind  them  Uk?  a  garden. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  287 

"  We  will  try  and  make  my  old  hall,  and  its  gloomy  shades, 
remind  us  of  these  fairer  scenes,  my  Florence." 

"  Ah  !  describe  to  me  the  character  of  your  place.  We  shall 
live  there  principally,  shall  we  not?  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it 
much  better  than  Marsden  Court,  which  is  the  name  of  that 
huge  pile  of  arches  and  columns  in  Vanbrugh's  heaviest  taste, 
which  will  soon  be  yours." 

"  I  fear  we  shall  never  dispose  of  all  your  mighty  retinue, 
grooms  of  the  chamber,  and  Patagonian  footmen,  and  Heaven 
knows  who  besides,  in  the  holes  and  corners  of  Burleigh,"  said 
Ernest,  smiling.  And  then  he  went  on  to  describe  the  old 
place  with  something  of  a  well-born  country  gentleman's  not 
displeasing  pride  ;  and  Florence  listened,  and  they  planned, 
and  altered,  and  added,  and  improved,  and  laid  out  a  map  for 
the  future.  From  that  topic  they  turned  to  another,  equally 
interesting  to  Florence.  The  work  in  which  Maltravers  had 
been  engaged  was  completed,  was  in  the  hands  of  the  printer, 
and  Florence  amused  herself  with  conjectures  as  to  the  criti- 
cisms it  would  provoke.  She  was  certain  that  all  that  had  most 
pleased  her  would  be  caviare  to  the  multitude.  She  never 
would  believe  that  any  one  could  understand  Maltravers  but 
herself.  Thus  time  flew  on  till  they  passed  that  part  of  the 
road  in  which  had  occurred  Ernest's  adventure  with  Mrs.  Tem- 
pleton's  daughter.  Maltravers  paused  abruptly  in  the  midst  of 
his  glowing  periods,  as  the  spot  awakened  its  associations  and 
reminiscences,  and  looked  round  anxiously  and  inquiringly. 
But  the  fair  apparition  was  not  again  visible ;  and  whatever 
impression  the  place  produced,  it  gradually  died  away  as  they 
entered  the  suburbs  of  the  great  metropolis.  Two  other  gentle- 
men and  a  young  lady  of  thirty-three  (I  had  almost  forgotten 
them)  were  of  the  party,  but  they  had  the  tact  to  linger  a  little 
behind  during  the  greater  part  of  the  road,  and  the  young  lady, 
who  was  a  wit  and  a  flirt,  found  gossip  and  sentiment  for  both 
the  cavaliers. 

"Will  you  come  to  us  this  evening?"  asked  Florence  timidly. 

"  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able.  I  have  several  matters  to  ar- 
range before  I  leave  town  for  Burleigh,  which  I  must  do  next 
week.  Three  months,  dearest  Florence,  will  scarcely  suffice  to 
make  Burleigh  put  on  its  best  looks  to  greet  its  new  mistress  ; 
and  I  have  already  appointed  the  great  modern  magicians  of 
draperies  and  ormolu  to  consult  how  we  may  make  Aladdin's 
palace  fit  for  the  reception  of  the  new  princess.  Lawyers,  too  ! 
— in  short,  I  expect  to  be  fully  occupied.  But  to-morrow,  at 
three,  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  we  can  ride  out  if  the  day  be  ftne," 


288  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"Surely,"  said  Florence,  "yonder  is  Signor  Cesarini — how 
haggard  and  pale  he  appears  ! " 

Maltravers,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the  spot  to  which  Flor- 
ence pointed,  saw  Cesarini  emerging  from  a  lane,  with  a  porter 
behind  him  carrying  some  books  and  a  trunk.  The  Italian, 
who  was  talking  and  gesticulating  as  to  himself,  did  not  per- 
ceive them. 

"  Poor  Castruccio  !  he  seems  leaving  his  lodging,"  thought 
Maltravers.  "  By  this  time  I  fear  he  will  have  spent  the  last 
sum  I  conveyed  to  him — I  must  remember  to  find  him  out  and 
replenish  his  stores. — Do  not  forget,"  said  he,  aloud,  "  to  see 
Cesarini,  and  urge  him  to  accept  the  appointment  we  spoke  of." 

"  I  will  not  forget  it — I  will  see  him  to-morrow  before  we 
meet.     Yet  it  is  a  painful  task,  Ernest." 

"I  allow  it.  Alas!  Florence,  you  owe  him  some  reparation. 
He  undoubtedly  once  conceived  himself  entitled  to  form 
hopes,  the  vanity  of  which  his  ignorance  of  our  English  world 
and  his  foreign  birth  prevented  him  from  suspecting." 

"Believe  me,  I  did  not  give  him  the  right  to  form  such  ex- 
pectations." 

"  But  you  did  not  sufficiently  discourage  them.  Ah,  Flor- 
ence, never  underrate  the  pangs  of  hope  crushed,  of  love  con- 
temned." 

"Dreadful!"  said  Florence,  almost  shuddering.  "It  is 
strange,  but  my  conscience  never  so  smote  me  before.  It  is 
since  I  love,  that  I  feel,  for  the  first  time,  how  guilty  a  crea- 
ture is — " 

"  A  coquette  !  "  interrupted  Maltravers.  "  Well,  let  us  think 
of  the  past  no  more  ;  but  if  we  can  restore  a  gifted  man,  whose 
youth  promised  much,  to  an  honorable  independence  and  a 
healthful  mind,  let  us  do  so.  Me,  Cesarini  never  can  forgive  ; 
he  will  think  I  have  robbed  him  of  you.  But  we  men — the 
woman  we  have  once  loved,  even  after  she  rejects  us,  ever  has 
some  power  over  us,  and  your  eloquence,  which  has  so  often 
roused  me,  cannot  fail  to  impress  a  nature  yet  more  excit- 
able." 

Maltravers,  on  quitting  Florence  at  her  own  door,  went  home, 
summoned  his  favorite  servant,  gave  him  Cesarini's  address  at 
Chelsea,  bade  him  find  out  where  he  was,  if  he  had  left  his 
lodgings;  and  leave  at  his  present  home,  or  (failing  its  dis- 
covery) at  the  "Travellers',"  a  cover  which  he  made  his  servant 
address,  enclosing  a  bank-note  of  some  amount.  If  the  reader 
wonder  why  Maltravers  thus  constituted  himself  the  unknown 
benefactor  of  the  Italian,  I  must  tell  him  that  he  does  not  un- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  289 

derstand  Maltravers.  Cesarini  was  not  the  only  man  of  letters 
whose  faults  he  pitied,  whose  wants  he  relieved.  Though  liis 
name  seldom  shone  in  the  pompous  list  of  public  subscrip- 
tions— though  he  disdained  to  affect  the  Maecenas  and  the 
patron,  he  felt  the  brotherhood  of  mankind,  and  a  kind  of  grati- 
tude for  those  who  aspired  to  raise  or  to  delight  their  species. 
An  autlior  himself,  he  could  appreciate  the  vast  debt  which  the 
world  owes  to  authors,  and  pays  but  by  calumny  in  life  and  bar- 
ren laurels  after  death.  He  whose  profession  is  the  Beautiful 
succeeds  only  through  the  Sympathies.  Charity  and  Compas- 
sion are  virtues  taught  with  difficulty  to  ordinary  men  ;  to  true 
Genius  they  are  but  the  instincts  v/hich  direct  it  to  the  Destiny 
it  is  born  to  fulfill, — viz.,  the  discovery  and  redemption  of  new 
traits  in  our  common  nature.  Genius — the  Sublime  Missionary 
— goes  forth  from  the  serene  Intellect  of  the  Author  to  live  in 
the  wants,  the  griefs,  the  infirmities  of  others,  in  order  that  it 
may  learn  their  language :  and  as  its  highest  achievement  is 
Pathos,  so  its  most  absolute  requisite  is  Pity  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Don  yohn.  How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  ? 
Borachio.  Not  honestly,  my  loid  ;  but  so  covertly,  that  no  dishonesty 
shall  appear  in  me,  my  lord." — Much  Ado  about  iVotking, 

Ferrers  and  Cesarini  were  sitting  over  their  wine,  and  both 
had  sunk  into  silence,  for  they  had  only  one  subject  in  common, 
when  a  note  was  brought  to  Lumley  from  Lady  Florence. — 
"  This  is  lucky  enough  ! "  said  he,  as  he  read  it.  "  Lady  Flo- 
rence wishes  to  see  you,  and  encloses  me  a  note  for  you,  which 
she  asks  me  to  address  and  forward  to  you.     There  it  is." 

Cesarini  took  the  note  with  trembling  hands  :  it  was  very 
short,  and  merely  expressed  a  desire  to  see  him  the  next  day  at 
two  o'clock. 

"What  can  it  be  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "can  she  want  to  apol- 
ogize, to  explain  ?" 

"No,  no,  no!  Florence  will  not  do  that;  but,  from  certain 
words  she  dropped  in  talking  with  me,  I  guess  that  she  has 
some  offer  to  your  worldly  advantage  to  propose  to  you.  Ha ! 
by  the  way,  a  thought  strikes  me." 

Lumley  eagerly  rang  the  bell.  "Is  Lady  Florence's  servant 
waiting  for  an  answer?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well — detain  him." 


290  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

**  Now,  Cesarini,  assurance  is  made  doubly  sure.  Come  into 
the  next  room.  There,  sit  down  at  my  desk,  and  write,  as  I 
shall  dictate,  to  Maltravers." 

"I!" 

"Yes,  now  do  put  yourself  in  my  hands — write,  write.  When 
you  have  finished,  I  will  explain." 

Cesarini  obeyed,  and  the  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"Dear  Maltravers: 

"  I  have  learned  your  approaching  marriage  with  Lady  Flor- 
ence Lascelles.  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you.  For  myself, 
I  have  overcome  a  vain  and  foolish  passion;  and  can  contem- 
plate your  happiness  without  a  sigh. 

"I  have  reviewed  all  my  old  prejudices  against  marriage,  and 
believe  it  to  be  a  state  which  nothing  but  the  most  perfect  con- 
geniality of  temper,  pursuits,  and  minds,  can  render  bearable. 
— How  rare  is  such  congeniality!  in  your  case  it  may  exist. 
The  affections  of  that  beautiful  being  are  doubtless  ardent — 
and  they  are  yours  ! 

"  Write  me  a  line  by  the  bearer  to  assure  me  of  your  belief  in 
my  sincerity. 

"  Yours, 

"  C.  Cesarini." 

"  Copy  out  this  letter,  I  want  its  ditto — quick.  Now  seal  and 
direct  the  duplicate,"  continued  Ferrers;  "that's  right;  go  into 
the  hall,  give  it  yourself  to  Lady  Florence's  servant,  and  beg 
him  to  take  it  to  Seamore  Place,  wait  for  an  answer,  and  bring 
it  here ;  by  which  time  you  will  have  a  note  ready  for  Lady 
Florence.  Say  I  will  mention  this  to  her  ladyship, — and  give 
the  man  half-a-crown.     There,  begone." 

"I  do  not  understand  a  word  of  this,"  said  Cesarini,  when  he 
returned:  "  will  you  explain  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  the  copy  of  the  note  you  have  despatched  to 
Maltravers  I  shall  show  to  Lady  Florence  this  evening, — as  a 
proof  of  your  sobered  and  generous  feelings  ;  observe,  it  is  so 
written,  that  the  old  letter  of  your  rival  may  seem  an  exact 
reply  to  it.  To-morrow  a  reference  to  this  note  of  yours  will 
bring  out  our  scheme  more  easily;  and  if  you  follow  my  instruc- 
tions you  will  not  seem  to  volunteer  showing  our  handiwork,  as 
we  at  first  intended;  but  rather  to  yield  it  to  her  eyes  from  a 
generous  impulse,  from  an  irresistible  desire  to  save  her  from 
an  unworthy  husband  and  a  wretched  fate.  Fortune  has  been 
dealing  our  cards  for  us,  and  has  turned  up  the  ace.  Three  to 
one  now^on  the  odd  trick.    Maltravers,  too,  is  at  home.     I  called 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  29I 

at  his  house  on  returning  from  my  uncle's,  and  learned  that 
he  would  not  stir  out  the  whole  evening." 

In  due  time  came  the  answer  from  Ernest:  it  was  short  and 
hurried;  but  full  of  all  the  manly  kindness  of  his  nature  ;  it 
expressed  admiration  and  delight  at  the  tone  ofCesarini's  letter; 
it  revoked  all  former  expressions  derogatory  to  Lady  Florence; 
it  owned  the  harshness  and  error  of  his  first  impressions  ;  it 
used  every  delicate  argument  that  could  soothe  and  reconcile 
Cesarini;  and  concluded  by  sentiments  of  friendship  and  de- 
sire of  service,  so  cordial,  so  honest,  so  free  from  the  affectation 
of  patronage,  that  even  Cesarini  himself,  half  insane  as  he  was 
with  passion,  was  almost  softened.  Lumley  saw  the  change  in 
his  countenance — snatched  the  letter  from  his  hand — read  it — 
threw  it  into  the  fire — and  saying,  "  We  must  guard  against  ac- 
cidents," clapped  the  Italian  affectionately  on  the  shoulder,  and 
added,  "  Now  you  can  have  no  remorse;  for  a  more  Jesuitical 
piece  of  insulting,  hypocritical  cant  I  never  read.  Where's  youi 
note  to  Lady  Florence  ?  Your  compliments,  you  will  be  with 
her  at  two.  There,  now  the  rehearsal's  over,  the  scenes  ar- 
ranged, and  I'll  dress,  and  open  the  play  for  you  with  a  pro- 
logue," 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"^stuat  ingens 
Imo  in  corde  pudor,  mixtoque  insania  luctu, 
Et  furiis  agitatuS  amor,  et  conscia  virtus."* — ViRGiL. 

The  next  day,  punctual  to  his  appointment,  Cesarini  repaired 
to  his  critical  interview  with  Lady  Florence.  Her  countenance, 
which,  like  that  of  most  persons  whose  temper  is  not  under 
their  command,  ever  too  faithfully  expressed  what  was  within, 
was  unusually  flushed.  Lumley  had  dropped  words  and  hints 
which  had  driven  sleep  from  her  pillow,  and  repose  from  her 
mind. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  with  nervous  agitation  as  Cesarini 
entered  and  made  his  grave  salutation.  After  a  short  and  em- 
barrassed pause,  she  recovered,  however,  her  self-possession, 
and  with  all  a  woman's  delicate  and  dexterous  tact,  urged  upon 
the  Italian  the  expediency  of  accepting  the  offer  of  honorable 
independence  now  extended  to  him. 

"  You  have  abilities,"  she  said,  in   conclusion,    "  you  have 

*  Deep  in  her  inmost  heart  is  stirred  the  immense  shame,  and  madness  with^commingled 
grief,  and  love  agitated  by  rage,  and  conscious  virtue. 


29«  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

friends,  you  have  youth;  take  advantage  of  these  gifts  of  nature 
and  fortune,  and  fulfil  such  a  career  as,"  added  Lady  Florence, 
with  a  smile,  "  Dante  did  not  consider  incompatible  with 
poetry." 

"I  cannot  object  to  any  career,"  saidCesarini,  with  an  effort, 
"  that  may  serve  to  remove  me  from  a  country  that  has  no 
longer  any  charms  for  me.  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  I 
will  obey  you.  May  you  be  happy;  and  yet — no,  ah!  no — 
happy  you  must  be!  Even  he,  sooner  or  later,  must  see  you 
with  my  eyes." 

"I  know,"  replied  Florence  falteringly,  "  that  you  have  wisely 
and  generously  mastered  a  past  illusion.  Mr.  Ferrers  allowed  me 
to  see  the  letter  you  wrote  to  Er — Mr.  Maltravers;  it  was 
worthy  of  you — it  touched  me  deeply;  but  I  trust  you  will  out- 
live your  prejudices  against — " 

"Stay,"  interrupted  Cesarini,  "did  Ferrers  communicate  to 
you  the  answer  to  that  letter?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

*•  I  am  glad  of  it." 
■  "Why?" 

"Oh,  no  matter.     Heaven  bless  you  ;  farewell." 

"  No  ;  I  implore  you,  do  not  go  yet ;  what  was  there  in  that  let- 
ter that  it  could  pain  me  to  see  ?  Lumley  hinted  darkly,  but 
would  not  speak  out :  be  more  frank." 

"I  cannot — it  would  be  treachery  to  Maltravers — cruelty  to 
you — yet  would  it  be  cruel?" 

"  No,  it  would  not — it  would  be  kindness  and  mercy;  show  me 
the  letter — you  have  it  with  you." 

"  You  could  not  bear  it ;  you  would  hate  me  for  the  pain  it 
would  give  you.     Let  me  depart." 

"  Man,  you  wrong  Maltravers.  I  see  it  now.  You  would 
darkly  slander  him  whom  you  cannot  openly  defame.  Go  ;  I  was 
wrong  to  listen  to  you — go  ! " 

"Lady  Florence,  beware  how  you  taunt  me  into  undeceiving 
you.  Here  is  the  letter,  it  is  his  handwriting — will  you  read  it? 
I  warn  you  not." 

"  I  will  believe  nothing  but  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes;  give 
it  me." 

"Stay,  then  ;  on  two  conditions.  F'irst,  that  you  promise  me 
sacredly  that  you  will  not  disclose  to  Maltravers,  without  my 
consent,  that  you  have  seen  this  letter.  Think  not  I  fear  his 
anger.  No  !  but  in  the  mortal  encounter  that  must  ensue,  if  you 
thus  betray  me — your  character  would  be  lowered  in  the  world's 
eyes,  and  even  I  (my  excuse  unknown)  might  not  appear  to  have 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  293 

acted  with  honor  in  obeying  your  desire,  and  warning  you,  while 
there  is  yet  time,  of  bartering  love  for  avarice.     Promise  me." 

"I  do,  most  solemnly." 

"  Secondly,  assure  me  that  you  will  not  ask  to  keep  the  letter, 
but  will  immediately  restore  it  to  me." 

"I  promise  it.     Now  then." 

"  Take  the  letter." 

Florence  seized  and  rapidly  read  the  fatal  and  garbled  docu- 
ument:  her  brain  was  dizzy — her  eyes  clouded — her  ears  rang  as 
with  the  sound  of  water — she  was  sick  and  giddy  with  emotion; 
but  she  read  enough.  This  letter  was  written,  then,  in  answer 
to  Castruccio's  of  last  night ;  it  avowed  dislike  of  her  character; 
it  denied  the  sincerity  of  her  love ;  it  more  than  hinted  the  mer- 
cenary nature  of  his  own  feelings.  Yes,  even  there,  wliere  she 
had  garnered  up  her  heart,  she  was  not  Florence  the  lovely  and 
beloved  woman;  but  Florence  the  wealthy  and  high-born  heiress. 
The  world  which  she  had  built  upon  the  faith  and  heart  of 
Maltravers  crumbled  away  at  her  feet.  The  letter  dropped 
from  her  hand — her  whole  form  seemed  to  shrink  and  shrivel 
up ;  her  teeth  were  set,  and  her  cheek  was  as  white  as  marble, 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  cried  Cesarini,  stung  with  remorse.  "  Speak  to 
me,  speak  to  me,  Florence  !  I  did  wrong  ;  forget  that  hateful  let- 
ter !     I  have  been  false — false  ! " 

"Ah,  false — say  so  again — no,  no,  I  remember  he  told  me — 
he,  so  wise,  so  deep  a  judge  of  human  character,  that  he  would 
be  sponsor  for  your-  faith — that  your  honor  and  heart  were 
incorruptible.  It  is  true;  I  thank  you — you  have  saved  me  from 
a  terrible  fate." 

"  O  Lady  Florence,  dear — too  dear — yet,  would  that — alas  ! 
she  does  not  listen  to  me,"  muttered  Caslruccio,  as  Florence 
pressing  her  hands  to  her  temples,  walked  wildly  to  and  fro  the 
room  ;  at  length  she  paused  opposite  to  Cesarini,  looked  him  full 
in  the  face,  returned  him  the  letter  without  a  word,  and  pointed 
to  the  door. 

"No,  no,  do  not  bid  me  leave  you  yet,"  said  Cesarini,  trem- 
bling with  repentant  emotion — yet  half  beside  himself  with  jeal- 
ous rage  at  her  love  for  his  rival. 

"  My  friend,  go,"  said  Florence,  in  a  tone  of  voice  singularly 
subdued  and  soft.  "  Do  not  fear  me  ;  I  have  more  pride  in  me 
than  even  affection  ;  but  there  are  certain  struggles  in  a  wo- 
man's breast  which  she  could  never  betray  to  any  one — any 
one  but  a  mother.  God  help  me,  I  have  none !  Go ;  when 
next  we  meet  I  shall  be  calm." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke ;  the  Italian  dropped  on 


294  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

his  knee,  kissed  it  convulsively,  and,  fearful  of  trusting  himself 
further,  vanished  from  the  room. 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  before  Maltravers  was  seen  riding 
through  the  street.  As  he  threw  himself  from  his  horse  he  looked 
up  at  the  window,  and  kissed  his  hand  at  Lady  Florence,  who 
stood  there  watching  his  arrival  with  feelings  indeed  far  differ- 
ent from  those  he  anticipated.  He  entered  the  room  lightly  and 
gayly. 

Florence  stirred  not  to  welcome  him.  He  approached  and 
took  her  hand  ;  she  withdrew  it  with  a  shudder. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Florence?" 

"I  am  well,  for  I  have  recovered." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Why  do  you  turn  from  me  ?  " 

Lady  Florence  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him,  eyes  that  literally 
blazed — her  lip  quivered  with  scorn. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  at  length  I  know  you.  I  understand  the 
feelings  with  which  you  have  sought  a  union  between  us.  O 
God  !  why,  why  was  I  thus  cursed  with  riches — why  made  a  thing 
of  barter  ?  Take  my  wealth,  take  it,  Mr.  Maltravers,  since  that  is 
what  you  prize.  Heaven  knows  I  can  cast  it  willingly  away;  but 
leave  the  wretch  whom  you  long  deceived,  and  who  now, 
wretch  though  she  be,  renounces  and  despises  you  ! " 

"  Lady  Florence,  do  I  hear  aright !  Who  has  accused  me  to 
you  ? " 

"  None,  sir,  none — I  would  have  believed  none.  Let  it  suffice 
that  I  am  convinced  that  our  union  can  be  happy  to  neither : 
question  me  no  further — all  intercourse  between  us  is  forever 
over ! " 

"Pause,"  said  Maltravers,  with  cold  and  grave  solemnity ; 
"another  word,  and  the  gulf  will  become  impassable.     Pause." 

"Do  not,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  lady,  stung  by  what  she 
considered  the  assurance  of  a  hardened  hypocrisy — "  do  not  af- 
fect this  haughty  superiority;  it  dupes  me  no  longer.  I  was  your 
slave  while  I  loved  you:  the  tie  is  broken.  I  am  free,  and  I  hate 
and  scorn  you.  Mercenary  and  sordid  as  you  are,  your  base- 
ness of  spirit  revives  the  differences  of  our  rank.  Henceforth, 
Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,  and  by  that  title 
alone  will  you  know  me.     Begone,  sir  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  with  passion  distorting  every  feature  of  her 
face,  all  her  beauty  vanished  away  from  the  eyes  of  the  proud 
Maltravers  as  if  by  witchcraft — the  angel  seemed  transformed 
into  the  fury;  and  cold,  bitter,  and  withering  was  the  eye  which 
he  fixed  upon  that  altered  countenance. 

"Mark  me.  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,"  said  he,  very  calmly, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  2g^ 

"you  have  now  said  what  you  can  never  recall.  Neither  in  man 
nor  in  woman  did  Ernest  Maltravers  ever  forget  or  forgive  a 
sentence  which  accused  him  of  dishonor,  I  bid  you  farewell  for 
ever ;  and  with  my  last  words  I  condemn  you  to  the  darkest  of 
all  dooms — the  remorse  that  comes  too  late  !  " 

Slowly  he  moved  away  ;  and  as  the  door  closed  upon  that  tow- 
ering and  haughty  form,  Florence  already  felt  that  his  curse  was 
working  to  its  fulfilment.  She  rushed  to  the  window — she  caught 
one  last  glimpse  of  him  as  his  horse  bore  him  rapidly  away.  Ah  ! 
when  shall  they  meet  again " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  And  now  I  live — O  wherefore  do  I  live  ? 
And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more. " — Wordsworth. 

It  was  about' nine  o'clock  that  evening,  and  Maltravers  was 
alone  in  the  room.  His  carriage  was  at  the  door — his  servants 
were  arranging  the  luggage — he  was  going  that  night  to  Burleigh. 
London — society — the  world — were  grown  hateful  to  him.  His 
galled  and  indignant  spirit  demanded  solitude.  At  this  time, 
Lumley  Ferrers  abruptly  entered. 

"You  will  pardon  my  intrusion,"  said  the  latter,  with  his  usual 
frankness — "  but — " 

"But  what,  sir — I  am  engaged." 

"  I  shall  be  very  brief.  Maltravers,  you  are  my  old  friend,  I 
retain  regard  and  affection  for  you,  though  our  different  habits 
have  of  late  estranged  us,  I  come  to  you  from  my  cousin — from 
Florence — there  has  been  some  misunderstanding  between  you. 
I  called  on  her  to-day  after  you  left  the  house.  Her  grief  af- 
fected me.  I  have  just  quitted  her.  She  had  been  told  by  some 
gossip  or  other,  some  story  or  other — women  are  credulous,  fool- 
ish creatures ; — undeceive  her,  and,  I  dare  say,  all  may  be  settled." 

"  Ferrers,  if  a  man  had  spoken  to  me  as  Lady  Florence  did, 
his  blood  or  mine  must  have  flowed.  And  do  you  think  that 
words  that  might  have  plunged  me  into  the  guilt  of  homicide  if 
uttered  by  a  man,  I  could  ever  pardon  in  one  whom  I  had 
dreamed  of  for  a  wife  ?     Never  !  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh — women's  words  are  wind.  Don't  throw  away 
so  splendid  a  match  for  such  a  trifle." 

"Do  you  too,  sir,  mean  to  impute  mercenary  motives  to  me." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  You  know  I  am  no  coward,  but  I  really 
don't  want  to  fight  you.     Come,  be  reasonable." 

*'  I  dare  say  you  mean  well,  but  the  breach  is  final — all  re- 


296  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

currence  to  it  is  painful  and  superfluous.  I  must  wish  you  good 
evening." 

"You  have  positively  decided?" 

"I  have." 

"  Even  if  Lady  Florence  made  the  amende  honorable!" 

"  Nothing  on  the  part  of  Lady  Florence  could  alter  my  reso- 
lution. The  woman  whom  an  honorable  man — an  English  gen- 
tleman— makes  the  partner  of  his  life,  ought  never  to  listen  to  a 
syllable  against  his  fair  name:  his  honor  is  hers,  and  if  her  lips, 
that  should  breathe  comfort  in  calumny,  only  serve  to  retail  the 
lie — she  may  be  beautiful,  gifted,  wealthy,  and  high-born,  but 
he  takes  a  curse  to  his  arms.     That  curse  I  have  escaped." 

"  And  this  I  am  to  say  to  my  cousin  ?" 

"  As  you  will.  And  now  stay,  Lumley  Ferrers,  and  hear  me. 
I  neither  accuse  nor  suspect  you,  I  desire  not  to  pierce  your 
heart,  and  in  this  case  I  cannot  fathom  your  motives;  but  if  it 
should  so  have  happened  that  you  have,  in  any  way,  ministered 
to  Lady  Florence  Lascelles'  injurious  opinions  of  my  faith  and 
honor,  you  will  have  much  to  [answer  for,  and  sooner  or  later 
there  will  come  a  day  of  reckoning  between  you  and  me." 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between  us,  with 
my  cousin's  fair  name  at  stake,  or  else  we  should  not  now  part 
without  preparations  for  a  more  hostile  meeting.  I  can  bear 
your  language.  /,  too,  though  no  philosopher,  can  forgive. 
Come,  man,  you  are  heated — it  is  very  natural; — let  us  part 
friends — your  hand." 

"  If  you  can  take  my  hand,  Lumley,  you  are  innocent,  and  I 
have  wronged  you." 

Lumley  smiled,  and  cordially  pressed  the  hand  of  his  old  friend. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs,  Maltravers  followed,  and  just  as 
Lumley  turned  into  Curzon  Street,  the  carriage  whirled  rapidly 
past  him,  and  by  the  lamps  he  saw  the  pale  and  stern  face  of 
Maltravers. 

It  was  a  slow,  drizzling  rain, — one  of  those  unwholesome  nights 
frequent  in  London  towards  the  end  of  autumn.  Ferrers,  how- 
ever, insensible  to  the  weather,  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
towards  his  cousin's  house.  He  was  playing  for  a  mighty  stake, 
and  hitherto  the  cast  was  in  his  favor,  yet  he  was  uneasy  and 
perturbed.  His  conscience  was  tolerably  proof  to  all  com- 
punction, as  much  from  the  levity  as  from  the  strength  of  his 
nature;  and  (Maltravers  removed)  he  trusted  in  his  knowledge 
of  the  hun.an  heart,  and  the  smooth  speciousness  of  his  manner, 
to  win,  at  last,  in  the  hand  of  Lady  Florence,  the  object  of  his 
ambition.     It  was  not  on  her  affection,  it  was  on  her  pique,  her 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  297 

resentment,  that  he  relied.  **  When  a  woman  fancies  herself 
slighted  by  the  man  she  loves,  the  first  person  who  proposes 
must  be  a  clumsy  wooer  indeed,  if  he  does  not  carry  her  away." 
So  reasoned  Ferrers,  but  yet  he  was  ruffled  and  disquieted;  the 
truth  must  be  spoken — able,  bold,  sanguine,  and  scornful  as  he 
was,  his  spirit  quailed  before  that  of  Maltravers;  he  feared  the 
lion  of  that  nature  when  fairly  aroused:  his  own  character  had 
in  it  something  of  a  woman's — an  unprincipled,  gifted,  asjnring, 
and  subtle  woman's,  and  in  Maltravers — stern,  simple,  and  mas- 
culine— he  recognized  the  superior  dignity  of  the  "lords  of 
the  creation";  he  was  overawed  by  the  anticipation  of  a  wrath 
and  revenge  which  he  felt  he  merited,  and  which  he  feared 
might  be  deadly. 

While  gradually,  however,  his  spirit  recovered  its  usual  elas- 
ticity, he  came  in  the  vicinity  of  Lord  Saxingham's  house,  and 
suddenly,  by  a  corner  of  the  street,  his  arm  was  seized:  to  his 
inexpressible  astonishment  he  recognized,  in  the  muffled  figure 
that  accosted  him,  the  form  of  Florence  Lascelles. 

"  Qood  heavens!  "  he  cried,  "  is  it  possible  ? — You,  alone  in  the 
streets,  at  this  hour,  in  such  a  night,  too!  How  very  wrong — 
how  very  impriident!" 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me — I  am  almost  mad  as  it  is:  I  could  not 
rest — I  could  not  brave  quiet,  solitude, — still  less,  the  face  of 
my  father — I  could  not! — but  quick,  what  says  he? — What 
excuse  has  he?     Tell  me  everything — I  will  cling  to  a  straw." 

"And  is  this  the  proud  Florence  Lascelles?" 

"No, — it  is  the  humbled  Florence  Lascelles.  I  have  done 
with  pride— speak  to  me  ! " 

"  Ah,  what  a  treasure  is  such  a  heart!  How  can  he  throw  it 
away  ? " 

"  Does  he  deny  ?  " 

"He  denies  nothing — he  expresses  himself  rejoiced  to  have 
escaped — such  was  his  expression — a  marriage  in  which  his 
heart  never  was  engaged.     He  is  unworthy  of  you — forget  him." 

Florence  shivered,  and  as  Ferrers  drew  her  arm  in  his  own,  her 
ungloved  hand  touched  his,  and  the  touch  was  like  that  of  ice. 

"  What  will  the  servants  think  ? — what  excuse  can  we  make  ?  " 
said  Ferrers,  when  they  stood  beneath  the  porch. 

Florence  did  not  reply;  but  as  the  door  opened,  she  said 
softly — 

"  I  am  ill — ill,"  and  clung  to  Ferrers  with  that  unnerved  and 
heavy  weight  which  betokens  faintness. 

The  light  glared  on  her — the  faces  of  the  lacqueys  betokened 
their  undisguised  astonishment.    With  a  violent  effort  FlorenQ? 


298  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

recovered  herself,  for  she  had  not  yet  done  with  pride,  swept 
through  the  hall  with  her  usual  stately  step,  slowly  ascended 
the  broad  staircase,  and  gained  the  solitude  of  her  own  room, 
to  fall  senseless  on  the  floor. 


BOOK   IX. 

'Ax^povTi  wfKjiEiau. — Soph.  Antigone. 
I  go,  the  bride  of  Acheron. 
tILkTikovTa  Tavra. — 7^.1333. 
These  things  are  in  the  future. 

CHAPTER   I. 

*  «    «« There  the  action  lies  * 
In  its  true  nature        *    *    *    * 

*  *    What  then?    What  rests? 
Try  what  repentance  can  !  " — HamUt. 

"  I  doubt  he  will  be  dead  or  ere  I  come. — King  yohn. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  December,  when  Lumley  Ferrers 
turned  from  Lord  Saxingham's  door.  The  knockers  were 
muffled — the  windows  on  the  third  story  were  partially  closed. 
There  was  sickness  in  that  house. 

Lumley's  face  was  unusually  grave  ;  it  was  even  sad.  "  So 
young — so  beautiful,"  he  muttered.  "If  ever  I  loved  woman,  I 
do  believe  I  loved  her, — that  love  must  be  my  excuse.  ...  I 
repent  of  what  I  have  done — but  I  could  not  foresee  that  a  mere 
lover's  stratagem  was  to  end  in  such  effects — the  metaphysician 
was  very  right  when  he  said,  '  We  only  sympathize  with  feel- 
ings we  know  ourselves.'  A  little  disappointment  in  love  could 
not  have  hurt  me  much — it  is  d — d  odd  it  should  hurt  her 
so.  I  am  altogether  out  of  luck;  old  Templeton — I  beg  his 
pardon.  Lord  Vargrave — (by  the  by,  he  gets  heartier  every  day — 
what  a  constitution  he  has!)  seems  cross  with  me.  He  did  not 
like  the  idea  that  I  should  marry  Lady  Florence — and  when  I 
thought  that  vision  might  have  been  realized,  hinted  that  I  was 
disappointing  some  expectations  he  had  formed;  I  can't  make 
out  what  he  means.  Then,  too,  the  government  have  offered 
that  place  to  Maltravers  instead  of  to  me.    In  fact,  my  star  is 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  299 

not  in  the  ascendant.  Poor  Florence,  though — I  would  really 
give  a  great  deal  to  know  her  restored  to  health!  I  have  done 
a  villainous  thing,  but  I  thought  it  only  a  clever  one.  However, 
regret  is  a  fool's  passion.  By  Jupiter!  talking  of  fools,  here 
comes  Cesarini." 

Wan,  haggard,  almost  spectral,  his  hat  over  his  brows,  his  dress 
neglected,  his  air  reckless  and  fierce,  Cesarini  crossed  the  way, 
and  thus  accosted  Lumley: 

"We  have  murdered  her,  Ferrers ;  and  her  ghost  will  haunt 
us  to  our  dying  day  ! " 

'*  Talk  prose :  you  know  I  am  no  poet.   What  do  you  mean ! " 

"  She  is  worse  to-day,"  groaned  Cesarini,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
**  I  wander  like  a  lost  spirit  round  the  house  ;  I  question  all  who 
come  from  it.    Tell  me — oh,  tell  me,  is  there  hope  ?  " 

"I  do,  indeed,  trust  so,"  replied  Ferrers,  fervently.  "The 
illness  has  only  of  late  assumed  an  alarming  appearance.  At 
first  it  was  merely  a  severe  cold,  caught  by  imprudent  exposure 
one  rainy  night.  Now  they  fear  it  has  settled  on  the  lungs ; 
but  ii  we  could  get  her  abroad,  all  might  be  well." 

"You  think  so,  honestly  ? " 

"  I  do.  Courage,  my  friend  ;  do  not  reproach  yourself  ;  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  She  was  taken  ill  of  a  cold,  not  of 
a  letter,  man  !  " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  judge  her  heart  by  my  own.  Oh,  that  I  could 
recall  the  past!  "  Look  at  me  ;  I  am  the  wreck  of  what  I  was  ; 
day  and  night  the  recollection  of  my  falsehood  haunts  me  with 
remorse." 

"  Pshaw  ! — we  will  go  to  Italy  together,  and  in  your  beautiful 
land,  love  will  replace  love." 

"  I  am  half  resolved,  Ferrers." 

"Ha! — to  do  what?" 

"  To  write — to  reveal  all  to  her." 

The  hardy  complexion  of  Ferrers  grew  livid  ;  his  brow  be- 
came dark  with  a  horrible  expression. 

"  Do  so,  and  fall  the  next  day  by  my  hand ;  my  aim,  in 
slighter  quarrel,  never  erred." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  threaten  me?" 

"Do  you  dare  to  betray  me?  Betray  one  who,  if  he  sinned, 
sinned  on  your  account — in  your  cause ;  who  would  have  se- 
cured to  you  the  loveliest  bride  and  the  most  princely  dower 
in  England  ;  and  whose  only  offence  against  you  is  that  he  can- 
not command  life  and  health  ?" 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  Italian,  with  great  emotion, — "forgive 
me,  and  do  not  misunderstand;  I  would  not  have  hetrRyed jyou — 


300  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

there  is  honor  among  villains.  I  would  have  confessed  only 
my  own  crime;  I  would  never  have  revealed  yours — why  should 
I?    It  is  unnecessary." 

"Are  you  in  earnest? — are  you  sincere?" 

"  By  my  soul !  " 

"  Then,  indeed,  you  are  worthy  of  my  friendship.  You  will 
assume  the  whole  forgery — an  ugly  word,  but  it  avoids  dircum- 
locution — to  be  your  own  ?" 

"  I  will." 

Ferrers  paused  a  moment,  and  then  stopped  suddenly  short. 

"You  will  swear  this  ?" 

"By  all  that  is  holy." 

"Then,  mark  me,  Cesarini ;  if  to-morrow  Lady  Florence  be 
worse,  I  will  throw  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  confession, 
should  you  resolve  to  make  it  ;  I  will  even  use  that  influence 
which  you  leave  me,  to  palliate  your  offence,  to  win  your  par- 
don. And  yet  to  resign  your  hopes — to  surrender  one  so  loved 
to  the  arms  of  one  so  hated — it  is  magnanimous — it  is  noble — 
it  is  above  my  standard  !     Do  as  you  will." 

Cesarini  was  about  to  reply,  when  a  servant  on  horseback 
abruptly  turned  the  corner,  almost  at  full  speed.  He  pulled 
in — Ins  eye  fell  upon  Lumley — he  dismounted. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ferrers,"  said  the  man,  breathlessly,  "I  have  been 
to  your  house ;  they  told  me  I  might  find  you  at  Lord  Saxing- 
ham's — I  was  just  going  there — " 

"  Well,  well,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  My  poor  master ;  sir — my  lord,  I  mean — " 

"What  of  him?" 

"Had  a  fit,  sir, — the  doctors  are  with  him — my  mistress — for 
my  lord  can't  speak — sent  me  express  for  you." 

"  Lend  me  your  horse — there,  just  lengthen  the  stirrups." 

While  the  groom  was  engaged  at  the  saddle,  Ferrers  turned 
to  Cesarini.  "Do  notliing  rashl)^,"  said  he;  "I  would  say,  if 
I  might,  nothing  at  all,  without  consulting  me  ;  but  mind,  I 
rely,  at  all  events,  on  your  promise — your  oath." 

"You  may,"  said  Cesarini,  gloomily. 

"Farewell,  then,"  said  Lumley,  as  he  mounted  ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  was  out  of  sight. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  30i 

CHAPTER  II. 

*'  O  world,  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  ha 
*  *  *  *  * 

Dost  thou  here  lie  ?  " — Julius  Casar. 

As  Liimley  leapt  from  his  horse  at  his  uncle's  door,  the  disorder 
and  bustle  of  these  demesnes,  in  which  the  severe  eye  of  the 
master  usually  preserved  a  repose  and  silence  as  complete  as  if 
the  affairs  of  life  were  carried  on  by  clockwork,  struck  upon 
him  sensibly.  Upon  the  trim  lawn,  the  old  women  employed 
in  cleaning  and  weeding  the  walks  were  all  assembled  in  a  clus- 
ter, shaking  their  heads  ominously  in  concert,  and  carrying  on 
their  comments  in  a  confused  whisper.  In  the  hall,  the  house- 
maid (and  it  was  the  first  housemaid  whom  Lumley  had  ever 
seen  in  that  house,  so  invisibly  were  the  wheels  of  the  domestic 
machine  carried  on)  was  leaning  on  her  broom,  "  swallowing 
with  open  mouth  a  footman's  news."  It  was  as  if,  with  the  first 
slackening  of  the  rigid  rein,  human  nature  broke  loose  from 
the  conventual  stillness  in  which  it  had  ever  paced  its  peaceful 
path  in  that  formal  mansion. 

"  How  is  he?  " 

"My  lord  is  better,  sir;  he  has  spoken,  I  believe." 

At  this  moment  a  young  face,  swollen  and  red  with  weeping, 
looked  down  from  the  stairs  ;  and  presently  Evelyn  rushed 
breathlessly  into  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  come  up — come  up.  Cousin  Lumley;  he  cannot,  cannot 
die  in  your  presence ;  you  always  seem  so  full  of  life  !  He 
cannot  die;  you  don't  think  he  will?  Oh,  take  me  with  you, 
they  won't  let  me  go  to  him  ! " 

"Hush,  my  dear  little  girl,  hush  ;  follow  me  lightly — that  is 
right." 

Lumley  reached  the  door,  tapped  gently — entered  ;  and  the 
child  also  stole  in  unobserved,  or  at  least  unprevented.  Lumley 
drew  aside  the  curtains  !  the  new  lord  was  lying  on  his  bed, 
with  his  head  propped  by  pillows,  his  eyes  wide  open,  with  a 
glassy  but  not  insensible  stare,  and  his  countenance  fearfully 
changed.  Lady  Vargrave  was  kneeling  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  one  hand  clasped  in  her  husband's,  the  other  bathing  his 
temples,  and  her  tears  falling,  without  sob  or  sound,  fast  and 
copiously  down  her  pale,  fair  cheeks. 

Two  doctors  were  conferring  in  the  recess  of  the  window  ; 
an  apothecary  was  mixing  drugs  at  a  table  ;  and  two  of  the  old- 


302  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

est  female  servants  of  the  house  were  standing  near  the  physi- 
cians, trying  to  overhear  what  was  said. 

"My  dear,  dear  uncle,  how  are  you?"  asked  Lumley. 

"  Ah,  you  are  come  then,"  said  the  dying  man,  in  a  feeble  yet 
distinct  voice  ;  *'  that  is  well — I  have  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  But  not  now — not  now — you  are  not  strong  enough,"  said 
the  wife,  imploringly. 

The  doctors  moved  to  the  bedside.  Lord  Vargrave  waved 
his  hand,  and  raised  his  head. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  as  if  death  were  hastening  upon 
me  ;  I  have  much  need,  while  my  senses  remain,  to  confer  with 
my  nephew.  Is  the  present  a  fitting  time  ? — if  I  delay,  are  you 
sure  that  I  shall  have  another?" 

The  doctors  looked  at  each  other. 

"  My  lord,"  said  one,  "  it  may  perhaps  settle  and  relieve  your 
mind  to  converse  with  your  nephew  ;  afterwards  you  may  more 
easily  compose  yourself  to  sleep." 

"  Take  this  cordial,  then,"  said  the  other  doctor. 

The  sick  man  obeyed.  One  of  the  physicians  approached 
Lumley,  and  beckoned  him  aside. 

"  Shall  we  send  for  his  lordship's  lawyer  ? "  whispered  the  leech. 

"  I  am  his  heir-at-law,"  thought  Lumley.  "Why,  »o,  my  dear 
sir — no,  I  think  not,  unless  he  expresses  a  desire  to  see  him  ; 
doubtless,  my  poor  uncle  has  already  settled  his  worldly  affairs. 
What  is  his  state  !  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  will  speak  to  you,  sir,  after 
you  have  left  his  lordship." 

"  What  is  the  matter  there  ? "  cried  the  patient,  sharply  and 
querulously.  "Clear  the  room — I  would  be  alone  with  my 
nephew." 

The  doctors  disappeared  ;  the  old  women  reluctantly  fol- 
lowed ;  when,  suddenly,  the  little  Evelyn  sprang  forward  and 
threw  herself  on  the  breast  of  the  dying  man,  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"  My  poor  child  ! — my  sweet  child  ! — my  own,  own  darling  !" 
gasped  out  Lord  Vargrave,  folding  his  weak  arms  round  her  ; 
"bless  you — bless  you  !  and  God  iciV/  bless  you.  My  wife,"  he 
added,  with  a  voice  far  more  tender  than  Lumley  had  ever  be- 
fore heard  him  address  to  Lady  Vargrave,  "  if  these  be  the  last 
words  I  utter  to  you,  let  them  express  all  the  gratitude  I  feel  for 
you,  for  duties  never  more  piously  discharged  :  you  did  not  love 
me,  it  is  true ;  and  in  health  and  pride  that  knowledge  often 
made  me  unjust  to  you.  I  have  been  severe — you  have  had 
much  to  bear — forgive  me." 


EftK£St   MALtRAVERS.  36^ 

"  Oh  !  do  not  talk  tlius  ;  you  have  been  nobler,  kinder  than 
my  deserts.  How  much  I  owe  you  ! — how  little  I  have  done 
in  return  ! " 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  ;  leave  me,  my  dear,  leave  me.  I  may 
live  yet — I  hope  I  may — I  do  not  want  to  die.  The  cup  may 
pass  from  me.     Go — go — and  you,  my  child." 

"Ah,  let  me  stay." 

Lord  Vargrave  kissed  the  little  creature,  as  she  clung  to  his 
neck  with  passionate  affection,  and  then,  placing  her  in  her 
mother's  arms,  fell  back  exhausted  on  his  pillow.  Lumley,with 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  opened  the  door  to  Lady  Vargrave, 
who  sobbed  bitterly,  and,  carefully  closing  it,  resumed  his  sta- 
tion by  his  uncle. 

When  Lumley  Ferrers  left  the  room,  his  countenance  was 
gloomy  and  excited  rather  than  sad.  He  hurried  to  the  room 
which  he  usually  occupied,  and  remained  there  for  some  hours 
while  his  uncle  slept — a  long  and  sound  sleep.  But  the  mother 
and  the  stepchild  (now  restored  to  the  sick  room)  did  not 
desert  their  watch. 

It  wanted  about  an  hour  to  midnight  when  the  senior  phy- 
sician sought  the  nephew. 

"  Your  uncle  asks  for  you,  Mr.  Ferrers ;  and  I  think  it  right 
to  say  that  his  last  moments  approach.  We  have  done  all  that 
can  be  done." 

"  Is  he  fully  aware  of  his  danger  ? " 

"  He  is  ;  and  has  spent  the  last  two  hours  in  prayer — it  is  a 
Christian's  deathbed,  sir." 

"  Humph  ! "  said  Ferrers,  as  he  followed  the  physician. 

The  room  was  darkened — a  single  lamp,  carefully  shaded, 
burned  on  a  table,  on  which  lay  the  Book  of  Life  in  Death : 
and,  with  awe  and  grief  on  their  faces,  the  mother  and  the  child 
were  kneeling  beside  the  bed. 

"  Come  here,  Lumley,"  faltered  forth  the  fast-dying  man. 
"  There  are  none  here  but  you  three — nearest  and  dearest  to 
me? — that  is  well.  Lumley,  then,  you  know  all — my  wife,  he 
knows  all.  My  child,  give  your  hand  to  your  cousin — so  you 
are  now  plighted.  When  you  grow  up,  Evelyn,  you  will  know 
that  it  is  my  last  wish  and  prayer  that  you  should  be  the  wife 
of  Lumley  Ferrers.  In  giving  you  this  angel,  Lumley,  I  atone 
to  you  for  all  seeming  injustice.  And  to  you,  my  child,  I 
secure  the  rank  and  honors  to  which  I  have  painfully  climbed, 
and  which  I  am  forbidden  to  enjoy.  Be  kind  to  her,  Lumley 
— you  have  a  good  and  frank  heart — let  it  be  her  shelter — she 
has  never  known  a  harsh  word.     God  bless  you  all,  and  Go4 


304  fefeNEST    MALTRAVEkS. 

forgive  me — pray  for  me.  Lumley,  to-morrow  you  will  be  Lord 
Vargrave,  and  by-and-by  "  (here  a  ghastly,  but  exultant  smile 
flitted  over  the  speaker's  countenance)  "  you  will  be  my  Lady 

— Lady  Vargrave.     Lady — so — so — Lady  Var " 

The  words  died  on  his  trembling  lips  ;  he  turned  round,  and, 
though  he  continued  to  breathe  for  more  than  an  hour,  Lord 
Vargrave  never  uttered  another  syllable. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

*         *         "  Hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down — on  what  ? — a.  fathomless  abyss." — YoUNG. 

Contempt,  farewell,  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  !  " 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

The  wound  which  Maltravers  had  received  was  peculiarly 
severe  and  rankling.  It  is  true  that  he  had  never  been  what 
is  called  violently  in  love  with  Florence  Lascelles  ;  but  from 
the  moment  in  which  he  had  been  charmed  and  surprised  into 
the  character  of  a  declared  suitor,  it  was  consonant  with  his 
scrupulous  and  loyal  nature  to  view  only  the  bright  side  of 
Florence's  gifts  and  qualities,  and  to  seek  to  enamour  his  grate- 
ful fancy  with  her  beauty,  her  genius,  and  her  tenderness  for 
himself.  He  had  thus  forced  and  formed  his  thoughts  and  hopes 
to  centre  all  in  one  object ;  and  Florence  and  the  Future  had 
grown  words  which  conveyed  the  same  meaning  to  his  mind. 
Perhaps  he  felt  more  bitterly  her  sudden  and  stunning  accu- 
sations, couched  as  they  were  in  language  so  unqualified, 
because  they  fell  upon  his  pride  rather  than  his  affection,  and 
were  not  softened  away  by  the  thousand  excuses  and  remem- 
brances which  a  passionate  love  would  have  invented  and  re- 
called. It  was  a  deep,  concentrated  sense  of  injury  and  insult, 
that  hardened  and  soured  his  whole  nature — wounded  vanity, 
wounded  pride,  and  wounded  honor.  And  the  blow,  too,  came 
upon  him  at  a  time  when  he  was  most  dissatisfied  with  all  other 
prospects.  He  was  disgusted  with  the  littleness  of  the  agents 
and  springs  of  political  life — he  had  formed  a  weary  contempt 
of  the  barrenness  of  literary  reputation.  At  thirty  years  of  age 
he  had  necessarily  outlived  the  sanguine  elasticity  of  early 
youth,  and  he  had  already  broken  up  many  of  those  later  toys 
in  business  and  ambition  which  afford  the  rattle  and  the  hobby- 
horse to  our  maturer  manhood.  Always  asking  for  something 
too  refined  and  too  exalted  for  human  life,  every  new  proof  of 


£RKEST   MaLTRAVERS.  365 

unwortliiness  in  men  and  things  saddened  or  revolted  a  mind 
still  too  fastidious  for  that  quiet  contentment  with  the  world  as 
it  is,  which  we  must  all  learn  before  we  can  make  our  philosophy 
practical,  and  our  genius  as  fertile  of  the  harvest  as  it  may  be 
prodigal  of  tlie  blossom.  Haughty,  solitary,  and  unsocial,  the 
ordinary  resources  of  mortified  and  disappointed  men  were  not 
for  Ernest  Maltravers.  Rigidly  secluded  in  his  country  retire- 
ment, he  consumed  the  days  in  moody  Avanderings  ;  and  in  the 
evenings  he  turned  to  books  with  a  spirit  disdainful  and  fatigued. 
So  much  had  he  already  learned,  that  books  taught  him  little 
that  he  did  not  already  know.  And  the  biographies  of  Authors, 
those  ghost-like  beings  who  seem  to  have  had  no  life  but  in 
the  shadow  of  their  own  haunting  and  imperishable  thoughts, 
dimmed  the  inspiration  he  might  have  caught  from  their  pages. 
Those  Slaves  of  the  Lamp,  those  Silkworms  of  the  Closet,  how 
little  had  they  enjoyed,  how  little  had  they  lived  !  Condemned 
to  a  mysterious  fate  by  the  wholesale  destinies  of  the  world, 
they  seemed  born  but  to  toil  and  to  spin  thoughts  for  the  com- 
mon crowd — and,  their  task  performed  in  drudgery  and  in 
darkness,  to  die  when  no  further  service  could  be  wrung  from 
their  exhaustion.  Names  had  they  been  in  life,  and  as  names 
they  lived  forever,  in  life  as  in  death,  airy  and  unsubstantial 
phantoms.  It  pleased  Maltravers  at  this  time  to  turn  a  curious 
eye  toward  the  obscure  and  half-extinct  philosophies  of  the 
ancient  world.  He  compared  the  Stoics  with  the  Epicureans — 
those  Epicureans  who  had  given  their  own  version  to  the  simple 
and  abstemious  utilitarianism  of  their  master.  He  asked  which 
was  the  wiser,  to  sharpen  pain  or  to  deaden  pleasure — to  bear 
all  or  to  enjoy  all — and,  by  a  natural  reaction  which  often 
happens  to  us  in  life,  this  man,  hitherto  so  earnest,  active- 
spirited,  and  resolved  on  great  things,  began  to  yearn  for  the 
drowsy  pleasures  of  indolence.  The  Garden  grew  more  tempt- 
ing than  the  Porch.  He  seriously  revolved  the  old  alternative 
of  the  Grecian  demi-god — might  it  not  be  wiser  to  abandon  the 
grave  pursuits  to  which  he  had  been  addicted,  to  dethrone  the 
august  but  severe  Ideal  in  his  heart — to  cultivate  the  light  loves 
and  voluptuous  trifles  of  the  herd — and  to  plant  the  brief  space 
of  youth  yet  left  to  him  with  the  myrtle  and  the  rose?  As 
water  flows  over  water,  so  new  schemes  rolled  upon  new — 
sweeping  away  every  momentary  impression,  and  leaving  the 
surface  facile  equally  to  receive  and  to  forget.  Such  is  a  com- 
mon state  with  men  of  imagination  in  those  crises  of  life  when 
some  great  revolution  of  designs  and  hopes  unsettles  elements 
too  susceptible  of  every  changing  wind.     And  thus  the  weak 


^t6  EfeNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

are  destroyed,  while  the  strong  relapse,  after  terrible  but  un- 
known convulsions,  into  that  solemn  harmony  and  order  from 
which  Destiny  and  God  draws  their  uses  to  mankind. 

It  was  from  this  irresolute  contest  between  antagonist  princi- 
ples that  Maltravers  was  aroused  by  the  following  letter  from 
Florence  Lascelles  : 

"  For  three  days  and  three  sleepless  nights  I  have  debated 
with  myself  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  address  you.  Oh,  Ernest, 
were  I  what  I  was,  in  health,  in  pride,  I  might  fear  that,  gener- 
ous as  you  are,  you  would  misconstrue  my  appeal ;  but  that  is 
now  impossible.  Our  union  never  can  take  place,  and  my  hopes 
bound  themselves  to  one  sweet  and  melancholy  hope, — that  you 
will  remove  from  my  last  hours  the  cold  and  dark  shadow  of 
your  resentment.  We  have  both  been  cruelly  deceived  and 
betrayed.  Three  days  ago  I  discovered  the  perfidy  that  has 
been  practised  against  us.  And  then,  ah !  then,  with  all  the 
weak  human  anguish  of  discovering  it  too  late  {your  curse  is 
fulfilled,  Ernest),  I  had  at  least  one  moment  of  proud,  of  ex- 
quisite rapture.  Ernest  Maltravers,  the  hero  of  my  dreams, 
stood  pure  and  lofty  as  of  old — a  thing  it  was  not  worthy  to 
love,  to  mourn,  to  die  for.  A  letter  in  your  handwriting  had 
been  shown  me,  garbled  and  altered,  as  it  seems — but  I  de- 
tected not  the  imposture — it  was  yourself,  yourself  alone, 
brought  in  false  and  horrible  witness  against  yourself !  And 
could  you  think  that  any  other  evidence,  the  words,  the  oaths  of 
others,  would  have  convicted  you  in  my  eyes  !  There  you 
wronged  me.  But  I  deserved  it — I  had  bound  myself  to  secrecy 
— the  seal  is  taken  from  my  lips  in  order  to  be  set  upon  my 
tomb.  Ernest,  beloved  Ernest — beloved  till  the  last  breath  is 
extinct — till  the  last  throb  of  this  heart  is  stilled  ! — write  me 
one  word  of  comfort  and  of  pardon.  You  will  believe  what  I 
have  imperfectly  written,  for  you  ever'  trusted  my  faith,  if  you 
have  blamed  my  faults.  I  am  now  comparatively  happy — a 
word  from  you  will  make  me  blest.  And  Fate  has,  perhaps, 
been  more  merciful  to  both,  than  in  our  short-sighted  and 
querulous  human  vision  we  might,  perhaps,  believe ;  for  now 
that  the  frame  is  brought  low,  and  in  the  solitude  of  my 
chamber  I  can  duly  and  humbly  commune  with  mine  own 
heart,  I  see  the  aspect  of  those  faults  which  I  once  mistook  for 
virtues,  and  feel  that,  had  we  been  united,  I,  loving  you  ever, 
might  not  have  constituted  your  happiness,  and  so  have  known 
the  misery  of  losing  your  affection.  May  He  who  formed  you 
for  glorious  and  yet  all-unaccomplished  purposes,  strengthen 
you  when  these  eyes  can  no  longer  sparkle  at  your  triumphs 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  3C7 

nor  weep  at  your  lightest  sorrow.  You  will  go  on  in  your  broad 
and  luminous  career.  A  few  years,  and  my  remembrance  will 
have  left  but  the  vestige  of  a  dream  behind.  But,  but — I  can 
write  no  more.     God  bless  you  !  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Ob,  stop  the  headlong  current  of  your  goodness  ; 
It  comes  too  fast  upon  a  feeble  soul. " 

Dryden  :  Sebastian  and  Dorcs. 

The  smooth  physician  had  paid  his  evening  visit ;  Lord 
Saxingham  had  gone  to  a  cabinet  dinner,  for  Life  must  ever  walk 
side  by  side  with  Death  :  and  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  was 
alone.  It  was  a  room  adjoining  her  sleeping-apartment — a  room 
in  which,  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  brilliant  and  wayward  heiress, 
she  had  loved  to  display  her  fanciful  and  peculiar  taste.  There 
had  she  been  accustomed  to  muse,  to  write,  to  study — there  had 
she  first  been  dazzled  by  the  novel  glow  of  Ernest's  undiurnal 
and  stately  thoughts — there  had  she  first  conceived  the  romance 
of  girlhood,  which  had  led  her  to  confer  with  him,  unknown — 
there  had  she  first  confessed  to  herself  that  fancy  had  begotten 
love — there  had  she  gone  through  love's  short  and  exhausting 
progress  of  lone  emotion  ; — the  doubt,  the  hope,  the  ecstasy  ; 
the  reverse,  the  terror  ;  the  inanimate  despondency,  the  agonized 
despair  !  And  there  now,  sadly  and  patiently,  she  awaited  the 
gradual  march  of  inevitable  decay.  And  books  and  pictures, 
and  musical  instruments,  and  marble  busts,  half-shadowed  by 
classic  draperies — and  all  the  delicate  elegancies  of  womanly 
refinement — still  invested  the  chamber  with  a  grace  as  cheerful 
as  if  youth  and  beauty  were  to  be  the  occupants  for  ever — and 
the  dark  and  noisome  vault  were  not  the  only  lasting  residence 
for  the  things  of  clay  ! 

Florence  Lascelles  was  dying ;  but  not  indeed  wholly  of  that 
common,  if  mystic  malady,  a  broken  heart.  Her  health,  always 
delicate,  because  always  preyed  upon  by  a  nervous,  irritable, 
and  feverish  spirit,  had  been  gradually  and  invisibly  undermined, 
even  before  Ernest  confessed  his  love.  In  the  singular  lustre  of 
those  large-pupilled  eyes — in  the  luxuriant  transparency  of  that 
glorious  bloom, — the  experienced  might  long  since  have  traced 
the  seeds  which  cradle  death.  In  the  night  when  her  restless 
and  maddened  heart  so  imprudently  drove  her  forth  to  forestall 
the  communication  of  Lumley  (whom  she  hadsenttoMaltravers, 
she  scarce  knew  for  what  object,  or  with  what  hope),  in  that 


3o8  ERNEST   MALtRAVERS. 

niglitshewas  already  in  a  high  state  of  fever.  The  rain  and  the 
chill  struck  the  growing  disease  within — her  excitement  gave  it 
food  and  fire — delirium  succeeded, — and  in  that  most  fearful  and 
fatal  of  all  medical  errors,  which  robs  the  frame,  when  it  most 
needs  strength,  of  the  very  principle  of  life,  they  had  bled  her 
into  a  temporary  calm,  and  into  permanent  and  incurable  weak- 
ness. Consumption  seized  its  victim.  The  physicians  who 
attended  her  were  the  most  renowned  in  London,  and  Lord 
Saxingham  was  firmly  persuaded  that  there  was  no  danger.  It 
was  not  in  his  nature  to  think  that  death  would  take  so  great  a 
liberty  with  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,  when  there  were  so  many 
poor  people  in  the  world  whom  there  would  be  no  impropriety 
in  removing  from  it.  But  Florence  knew  her  danger,  and  her 
high  spirit  did  not  quail  before  it.  Yet,  when  Cesarini,  stung 
beyond  endurance  by  the  horrors  of  his  remorse,  wrote  and  con- 
fessed all  his  own  share  of  the  fatal  treason,  though,  faithful  to 
hispromise,  he  concealed  that  of  his  accomplice, — then,  ah  then, 
she  did  indeed  repine  at  her  doom,  and  long  to  look  once  more 
with  the  eyes  of  love  and  joy  upon  the  face  of  the  beautiful 
world.  But  the  illness  of  the  body  usually  brings  out  a  latent 
power  and  philosophy  of  the  soul  which  health  never  knows ; 
and  God  has  mercifully  ordained  it  as  the  customary  lot  of 
nature,  that  in  proportion  as  we  decline  into  the  grave,  the 
sloping  path  is  made  smooth  and  easy  to  our  feet ;  and  every 
day,  as  the  films  of  clay  are  removed  from  our  eyes,  Death  loses 
the  false  aspect  of  the  spectre,  and  we  fall  at  last  into  its  arms 
as  a  wearied  child  upon  the  bosom  of  its  mother. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Lady  Florence  listened  to  the 
monotonous  clicking  of  the  clock  that  announced  the  departure 
of  moments  few,  yet  not  precious,  still  spared  to  her.  Her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  she  bent  over  the  small  table  beside  her 
sofa,  and  indulged  her  melancholy  thoughts.  Bowed  was  the 
haughty  crest,  unnerved  the  elastic  shape  that  had  once  seemed 
born  for  majesty  and  command — no  friends  were  near,  for 
Florence  had  never  made  friends.  Solitary  had  been  her  youth, 
and  solitary  were  her  dying  hours. 

As  she  thus  sat  and  mused,  a  sound  of  carriage  wheels  in  the 
street  below  slightly  shook  the  room — it  ceased — the  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door.  Florence  looked  up.  "  No,  no,  it  cannot 
be,"  she  muttered  ;  yet,  while  she  spoke,  a  faint  flush  passed 
over  her  sunken  and  faded  cheek,  and  the  bosom  heaved  beneath 
the  robe,  "  a  world  too  wide  for  its  shrunk  "  proportions.  There 
was  a  silence  which  to  her  seemed  interminable,  and  she  turned 
away  with  a  deep  sigh  and  a  chill  sinking  of  the  heart. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  309 

At  this  time  her  woman  entered  with  a  meaning  and  flurried 
look. 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady — but — " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers  has  called,  and  asked  for  your  ladyship — 
so,  my  lady,  Mr.  Burton  sent  for  me,  and  I  said,  my  lady  is  too 
unwell  to  see  anyone  ;  but  Mr.  Maltravers  would  not  be  denied, 
and  he  is  waiting  in  my  lord's  library,  and  insisted  on  my  com- 
ing up  and  'nouncing  him,  my  lady." 

Now  Mrs.  Shinfield's  words  were  not  euphonistic,  nor  her 
voice  mellifluous  ;  but  never  had  eloquence  seemed  to  Florence 
so  effective.  Youth,  love,  beauty,  all  rushed  back  upon  her  at 
once,  brightening  her  eyes,  her  cheek,  and  filling  up  ruin  with 
sudden  and  deceitful  light. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  pause, "  let  Mr.  Maltravers  come  up." 

"Come  up,  my  lady?  Bless  me'! — let  me  just 'range  your 
hair — your  ladyship  is  really  in  such  dish-a-bill." 

"  Best  as  it  is,  Shinfield — he  will  excuse  all — Go." 

Mrs.  Shinfield  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  departed.  A  few 
moments  more — a  step  on  the  stairs,  the  creaking  of  the  door, — 
and  Maltravers  and  Florence  were  again  alone.  He  stood  mo- 
tionless on  the  threshold.  She  had  involuntarily  risen,  and  so 
they  stood  opposite  to  each  other,  and  the  lamp  fell  full  upon 
her  face.  Oh,  heaven  !  when  did  that  sight  cease  to  haunt  the 
heart  of  Maltravers  !  When  shall  that  altered  aspect  not  pass 
as  a  ghost  before  his  eyes! — there  it  is,  faithful  and  reproachful, 
alike  in  solitude  and  in  crowds — it  is  seen  in  the  glare  of  noon — 
it  passes  dim  and  wan  at  night,  beneath  the  stars  and  the  earth — 
it  looked  into  his  heart,  and  left  its  likeness  there  for  ever  and 
for  ever  !  Those  cheeks,  once  so  beautifully  rounded,  now 
sunken  into  lines  and  hollows — the  livid  darkness  between  the 
eyes — the  whitened  lip — the  sharp,  anxious,  worn  expression, 
which  had  replaced  that  glorious  and  beaming  regard,  from 
which  all  the  life  of  genius,  all  the  sweet  pride  of  womanhood 
had  glowed  forth,  and  in  which  not  only  the  intelligence,  but 
the  eternity,  of  the  soul  seemed  visibly  wrought ! 

There  he  stood,  aghast  and  appalled.  At  length  a  low  groan 
broke  from  his  lips — he  rushed  forward,  sank  on  his  knees  be- 
side her,  and,  clasping  both  her  hands,  sobbed  aloud  as  he  cov- 
ered them  with  kisses.  All  the  iron  of  his  strong  nature  was 
broken  down,  and  his  emotions,  long  silenced,  and  now  uncon- 
trollable and  resistless,  were  something  terrible  to  behold  ! 

"  Do  not — do  not  weep  so,"  murmured  Lady  Florence,  fright- 
ened by  his  vehemence  ;  "  I  am  sadly  changed,  but  the  fault  i^ 


3IO  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

mine — Ernest,  it  is  mine  ;  best,  kindest,  gentlest,  how  could  I 
have  been  so  mad  ! — and  you  forgive  me  ?  I  am  yours  again — 
a  little  while  yours.     Ah,  do  not  grieve  while  I  am  so  blessed!  " 

As  she  spoke,  her  tears — tears  from  a  source  how  different 
from  that  whence  broke  the  scorching  and  intolerable  agony 
of  his  own,  fell  soft  upon  his  bended  head,  and  the  hands  that 
still  convulsively  strained  hers,  Maltravers  looked  wildly  up 
into  her  countenance,  and  shuddered  as  he  saw  her  attempt  to 
smile.  He  rose  abruptly,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  cov- 
ered his  face.  He  was  seeking  by  a  violent  effort  to  master  him- 
self, and  it  was  only  by  the  heaving  of  his  chest,  and  now  and 
then  a  gasp  as  for  breath,  that  he  betrayed  the  stormy  struggle 
within. 

Florence  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  bitter,  in  almost  selfish, 
penitence.  "  And  this  was  the  man  who  seemed  to  me  so  cal- 
lous to  the  softer  sympathies — this  was  the  heart  I  trampled 
upon — this  the  nature  I  distrusted  !  " 

She  came  near  him,  trembling  and  with  feeble  steps — she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  the  fondness  of  love  came  over 
her,  and  she  wound  her  arms  around  him. 

"It  is  our  fate — it  is  my  fate,"  said  Maltravers  at  last,  awak- 
ing as  from  a  hideous  dream,  and  in  a  hollow  but  calm  voice — 
"we  are  the  things  of  destiny,  and  the  wheel  has  crushed  us. 
It  is  an  awful  state  of  being,  this  human  life  ! — What  is  wisdom — 
virtue — faith  to  men — piety  to  heaven — all  the  nurture  we  be- 
stow on  ourselves — all  our  desire  to  win  a  loftier  sphere,  when 
we  are  thus  the  tools  of  the  merest  chance — the  victims  of  the 
pettiest  villainy;  and  our  very  existence — our  very  senses  almost, 
at  the  mercy  of  every  traitor  and  every  fool  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  Ernest's  voice,  as  well  as  in  his  re- 
flections, which  appeared  so  unnaturally  calm  and  deep  that  it 
startled  Florence  with  a  fear  more  acute  than  his  previous  vio- 
lence had  done.  He  rose,  and,  muttering  to  himself,  walked  to 
and  fro,  as  if  insensible  of  her  presence — in  fact  he  was  so.  At 
length  he  stopped  short,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  Lady  Flor- 
ence, said,  in  a  whispered  and  thrilling  tone, — 

"  Now,  then,  the  name  of  our  undoer?" 

"  No,  Ernest,  no — never,  unless  you  promise  me  to  forego  the 
purpose  which  I  read  in  your  eyes.  He  has  confessed — he  is 
penitent — I  have  forgiven  him — you  will  do  so  too  !  " 

"  His  name  !  "  repeated  Maltravers,  and  his  face,  before  very 
flushed,  was  unnaturally  pale. 

"  Forgive  him — promise  me." 

"  His  name,  I  say — his  name  ? " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  31I 

"  Is  this  kind  ? — you  terrify  me — you  will  kill  me  !  '  faltered 
out  Florence,  and  she  sank  on  the  sofa  exhausted  :  her  nerves, 
now  so  weakened,  were  perfectly  unstrung  by  his  vehemence, 
and  she  wrung  her  hands  and  wept  piteously. 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  his  name  ? "  said  Maltravers  softly. 
"  Be  it  so.  I  will  ask  no  more.  I  can  discover  it  myself.  Fate 
the  Avenger  will  reveal  it." 

At  that  thought  he  grew  more  composed  ;  and  as  Florence 
wept  on,  the  unnatural  concentration  and  fierceness  of  his  mind 
again  gave  way,  and,  seating  himself  beside  her,  he  uttered  all 
that  could  soothe  and  comfort  and  console.  And  Florence 
was  soon  soothed  !  And  there,  while  over  their  heads  the  grim 
skeleton  was  holding  the  funeral  pall,  they  again  exchanged 
their  vows,  and  again,  with  feelings  fonder  than  of  old,  spoke 
of  love. 


CHAPTER  V. 

»        *        *         "  Erichtho,  then, 

Breathes  her  dire  murmurs  which  enforce  him  bear 

Her  baneful  secrets  to  the  spirits  of  horror." — Marlow. 

With  a  heavy  step  Maltravers  ascended  the  stairs  of  his 
lonely  house  that  night,  and  heavily,  with  a  suppressed  groan, 
did  he  sink  upon  the  first  chair  that  proffered  rest. 

It  was  intensely  cold.  During  his  long  interview  with  Lady 
Florence,  his  servant  had  taken  the  precaution  to  go  to  Sea- 
more  Place  and  make  some  hasty  preparations  for  the  owner's 
return.  But  the  bedroom  looked  comfortless  and  bare,  the 
curtains  were  taken  down,  the  carpets  were  taken  up  (a  single 
man's  housekeeper  is  wonderfully  provident  in  these  matters : 
the  moment  his  back  is  turned,  she  bustles,  she  displaces,  she 
exults  ;  "things  can  be  put  a  little  to  rights  !  ").  Even  the  fire 
would  not  burn  clear,  but  gleamed  sullen  and  fitful  from  the 
smothering  fuel.  It  was  a  large  chamber,  and  the  lights  imper- 
fectly filled  it.  On  the  table  lay  parliamentary  papers,  and 
pamphlets,  and  bills,  and  presentation-books  from  younger 
authors, — evidences  of  the  teeming  business  of  that  restless 
machine,  the  world.  But  of  all  this  Maltravers  was  not  sensi- 
ble :  the  winter  frost  numbed  not  his  feverish  veins.  His  ser- 
vant, who  loved  him,  as  all  who  saw  much  of  Maltravers  did, 
fidgeted  anxiously  about  the  room  and  plied  the  sullen  fire,  and 
laid  out  the  comfortable  dressing-robe,  and  placed  wine  on  the 
t9,ble,  and  asked  questions  which  were  not  answered,  and  pressed 


312 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


service  which  was  not  heeded.  The  little  wheels  of  life  go 
on,  even  when  the  great  wheel  is  paralyzed  or  broken.  Mal- 
travers  was,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  in  a  kind  of  mental  trance. 
His  emotions  had  left  him  thoroughly  exhausted.  He  felt  that 
torpor  which  succeeds,  and  is  again  the  precursor  of,  great  woe. 
At  length  he  was  alone,  and  the  solitude  half-unconsciously  re- 
stored him  to  the  sense  of  his  heavy  misery.  For  it  may  be  ob- 
served that,  when  misfortune  has  stricken  us  home,  the  pres- 
ence of  any  one  seems  to  interfere  between  the  memory  and 
the  heart.  Withdraw  the  intruder,  and  the  lifted  hammer  falls 
at  once  upon  the  anvil !  He  rose  as  the  door  closed  on  his  at- 
tendant— rose  with  a  start,  and  pushed  the  hat  from  his  gathered 
brows.  He  walked  for  some  minutes  to  and  fro,  and  the  air  of 
the  room,  freezing  as  it  was,  oppressed  him. 

There  are  times  when  the  arrow  quivers  within  us — in  which 
all  space  seems  too  confined.  Like  the  wounded  hart  we  could 
fly  on  for  ever  ;  there  is  a  vague  desire  of  escape — a  yearning, 
almost  insane,  to  get  out  from  our  own  selves  :  the  soul  strug- 
gles to  flee  away  and  take  the  wings  of  the  morning. 

Impatiently,  at  last,  did  Maltravers  throw  open  his  window  ; 
it  communicated  upon  a  balcony,  built  out  to  command  the 
wide  view  which,  from  a  certain  height,  that  part  of  the  park 
affords.  He  stept  into  the  balcony  and  bared  his  breast  to 
the  keen  air.  The  uncomfortable  and  icy  heavens  looked  down 
upon  the  hoar-rime  that  gathered  over  the  grass,  and  the  ghostly 
boughs  of  the  death-like  trees.  All  things  in  the  world  without 
brought  the  thought  of  the  grave,  and  the  pause  of  being,  and 
the  withering  up  of  beauty,  closer  and  closer  to  his  soul.  In 
the  palpable  and  griping  winter,  death  itself  seemed  to  wind 
around  him  its  skeleton  and  joyless  arms.  And  as  thus  he  stood, 
and,  wearied  with  contending  against,  passively  yielded  to,  the 
bitter  passions  that  wrung  and  gnawed  his  heart, — he  heard  not 
a  sound  at  the  door  below — nor  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs — nor 
knew  he  that  a  visitor  was  in  his  room — till  he  felt  a  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and,  turning  round,  he  beheld  the  white  and  livid 
countenance  of  Castruccio  Cesarini. 

"  It  is  a  dreary  night  and  a  solemn  hour,  Maltravers,"  said 
the  Italian,  with  a  distorted  smile,  "  a  fitting  night  and  time 
for  my  interview  with  you." 

"  Away  !  "  said  Maltravers,  in  an  impatient  tone.  "  I  am  not 
at  leisure  for  these  mock  heroics." 

"  Ay,  but  you  shall  hear  me  to  the  end.  I  have  watched  your 
arrival — I  have  counted  the  hours  in  which  you  remained 
with  her — I  have  followed  you  home.     If  you  hav^  human  pas- 


ERNEST    MALTR AVERS.  ^l^ 

sions,  humanity  itself  must  be  dried  up  within  you,  and  the  wild 
beast  in  his  cavern  is  not  more  fearful  to  encounter.  Thus, 
then,  I  seek  and  brave  you.  Be  still.  Has  Florence  revealed 
to  you  the  name  of  him  who  belied  you,  and  who  betrayed  her- 
self to  the  death  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Maltravers,  growing  very  pale,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  Cesarini,  "  you  are  not  the  man — my  suspicions  lighted 
elsewhere." 

"I  am  the  man.     Do  thy  worst." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered,  when,  with  a  fierce  cry, 
Maltravers  threw  himself  on  the  Italian  ; — he  tore  him  from 
his  footing — he  grasped  him  in  his  arms  as  a  child — he  literally 
whirled  him  around  and  on  high  ;  and  in  that  maddening  par- 
oxysm, it  was,  perhaps,  but  the  balance  of  a  feather,  in  the  con- 
flicting elements  of  revenge  and  reason,  which  withheld  Mal- 
travers from  hurling  the  criminal  from  the  fearful  height  on 
which  they  stood.  The  temptation  passed — Cesarini  leaned, 
safe,  unharmed,  but  half  senseless  with  mingled  rage  and  fear, 
against  the  wall. 

He  was  alone — Maltravers  had  left  him — had  fled  from  him- 
self— fled  into  the  chamber — fled  for  refuge  from  human  pas- 
sions— to  the  wing  of  the  All-Seeing  and  All-Present.  "Father," 
he  groaned,  sinking  on  his  knees,  "  support  me,  save  me  :  with- 
out Thee  I  am  lost !  " 

Slowly  Cesarini  recovered  himself,  and  re-entered  the  apart- 
ment. A  string  in  his  brain  was  already  loosened,  and,  sullen 
and  ferocious,  he  returned  again  to  goad  the  lion  that  had 
spared  him.  Maltravers  had  already  risen  from  his  brief  prayer. 
With  locked  and  rigid  countenance,  with  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  he  stood  confronting  the  Italian,  who  advanced  towards 
him  with  a  menacing  brow  and  arm,  but  halted  involuntarily  at 
the  sight  of  that  commanding  aspect. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Maltravers  at  last,  with  a  tone  preternat- 
urally  calm  and  low,  "you  then  are  the  man.  Speak  on — what 
arts  did  you  employ  ?  " 

"Your  own  letter  !  When,  many  months  ago,  I  wrote  to  tell 
you  of  the  hopes  it  was  mine  to  conceive,  and  to  ask  your 
opinion  of  her  I  loved, how  did  you  answer  me?  With  doubts, 
with  depreciation,  with  covert  and  polished  scorn,  of  the  very 
woman  whom,  with  a  deliberate  treachery,  you  afterwards 
wrested  from  my  worshipping  and  adoring  love.  That  letter  I 
garbled — I  made  the  doubts  you  expressed  of  my  happiness 
seem  doubts  of  your  own.  I  changed  the  dates — I  made  the 
letter  itself  appear  written,  not  on  your  first  acquaintance  with 


314  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

her,  but  subsequent  to  your  plighted  and  accepted  vows.  Youf 
own  handwriting  convicted  you  of  mean  suspicion  and  of  sordid 
motives.     These  were  my  arts." 

"  They  were  most  noble.  Do  you  abide  by  them — or  re- 
pent ?" 

"  For  what  I  have  done  to  thee  I  have  no  repentance.  Nay, 
I  regard  thee  still  as  the  aggressor.  Thou  hast  robbed  me  of 
her  who  was  all  the  world  to  me — and,  be  thine  excuses  what 
they  may,  I  hate  thee  with  a  hate  that  cannot  slumber — that 
abjures  the  abject  name  of  remorse  !  I  exult  in  the  very  agonies 
thou  endurest.     But  for  her — the  stricken — the  dying[!    O  God, 

0  God  !     The  blow  falls  upon  mine  own  head  ! " 

"  Dying  !  "  said  Maltravers,  slowly  and  with  a  shudder.  "  No, 
no — not  dying — or  what  art  thou  ?  Her  murderer  !  And  what 
must  I  be  ?     Her  avenger  ! " 

Overpowered  with  his  own  passions,  Cesarini  sank  down, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  clasped  hands.  Maltravers  stalked 
gloomily  to  and  fro  the  apartment.  There  was  silence  for  some 
moments. 

At  length,  Maltravers  paused  opposite  Cesarini,  and  thus 
addressed  him  : 

"You  have  come  hither,  not  so  much  to  confess  the  basest 
crime  of  which  man  can  be  guilty,  as  to  gloat  over  my  anguish, 
and  to  brave  me  to  revenge  my  wrongs.  Go,  man,  go — for  the 
present  you  are  safe.  While  she  lives,  my  life  is  not  mine  to 
hazard — if  she  recover,  I  can  pity  you  and  forgive.  To  me 
your  offence,  foul  though  it  be,  sinks  belovv  contempt  itself.  It 
is  the  consequences  of  that  crime  as  they  relate  to — to — that  noble 
and  suffering  woman,  which  can  alone  raise  the  despicable  into 
the  tragic,  and  make  your  life  a  worthy  and  a  necessary  offer- 
ing— not  to  revenge,  but  justice  : — life  for  life — victim  for 
victim  !     'Tis  the  old  law — 'tis  a  righteous  one." 

"You  shall  not,  with  your  accursed  coldness,  thus  dispose  of 
me  as  you  will,  and  arrogate  the  option  to  smite  or  save  !  No," 
continued  Cesarini,  stamping  his  foot — *'  no  ;  far  from  seeking 
forbearance  at  your  hands — I  dare  and  defy  you  !     You  think 

1  have  injured  you — I,  on  the  other  hand,  consider  that  the 
wrong  has  come  from  yourself.  But  for  you,  she  might  have 
loved  me — have  been  mine.  Let  that  pass.  But  for  you,  at 
least,  it  is  certain  that  I  should  neither  have  sullied  my  soul  with 
a  vile  sin,  nor  brought  the  brightest  of  human  beings  to  the 
grave.  If  she  dies,  the  murder  may  be  mine,  but  you  were  the 
cause — the  devil  that  tempted  to  the  offence.  I  defy  and  spit 
upon  you — I  have  no  softness  left  in  me — my  veins  are  fire — 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  ^tg 

my  heart  thirsts  for  blood.  You — you — have  still  the  privilege 
to  see — to  bless — to  tend  her :  and  I — I,  vi'ho  loved  her  so — who 
could  have  kissed  the  earth  she  trod  on — I — well,  well,  no 
matter, — I  hate  you — I  insult  you — I  call  you  villain  and  das- 
tard— I  throw  myself  on  the  laws  of  honor,  and  I  demand  that 
conflict  you  defer  or  deny  ! " 

"Home, doter — home — fall  on  thy  knees,  and  pray  to  Heaven 
for  pardon — make  up  thy  dread  account — repine  not  at  the 
days  yet  thine  to  wash  the  black  spot  from  thy  soul.  For,  while 
I  speak,  I  foresee  too  well  that  her  days  are  numbered,  and  with 
her  thread  of  life  is  entwined  thine  own.  Within  twelve  hours 
from  her  last  moment,  we  shall  meet  again  :  but  now  I  am  as 
ice  and  stone, — thou  canst  not  move  me.  Her  closing  life  shall 
not  be  darkened  by  the  aspect  of  blood — by  the  thought  of  the 
sacrifice  it  demands.  Begone,  or  menials  shall  cast  thee  from 
my  door  :  those  lips  are  too  base  to  breathe  the  same  air  as 
honest  men.     Begone,  I  say,  begone  !  " 

Though  scarce  a  muscle  moved  in  the  lofty  countenance  of 
Maltravers — though  no  frown  darkened  the  majestic  brow — 
though  no  fire  broke  from  the  steadfast  and  scornful  eye — there 
was  a  kingly  authority  in  the  aspect,  in  the  extended  arm,  the 
stately  crest,  and  a  power  in  the  swell  of  the  stern  voice,  which 
awed  and  quelled  the  unhappy  being  whose  own  passions  ex- 
hausted and  unmanned  him.  He  strove  to  fling  back  scorn 
to  scorn,  but  his  lips  trembled  and  his  voice  died  in  hollow  mur- 
murs within  his  breast.  Maltravers  regarded  him  with  a  crush- 
ing and  intense  disdain.  The  Italian  with  shame  and  wrath 
wrestled  against  himself,  but  in  vain  :  the  cold  eye  that  was 
fixed  upon  him  was  as  a  spell,  which  the  fiend  within  him  could 
not  rebel  against  or  resist.  Mechanically  he  moved  to  the  door, 
then  turning  round  he  shook  his  clenched  hand  at  Maltravers, 
and  with  a  wild,  maniacal  laugh  rushed  from  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies." — Gray. 

Not  a  day  passed  in  which  Maltravers  was  absent  from  the 
side  of  Florence.  He  came  early,  he  went  late.  He  subsided 
into  his  former  character  of  an  accepted  suitor  without  a  word 
of  explanation  with  Lord  Saxingham.  That  task  was  left  to 
Florence.  She  doubtless  performed  it  well,  for  his  lordship 
seemed  satisfied,  though  grave,  and,  almost  for  the  first  time  in 


jl6  EkNESt    MALTRAVERS. 

his  life,  sad.  Maltravers  never  reverted  to  the  cause  of  their 
unhappy  dissension.  Nor  from  that  night  did  he  once  give  way 
to  whatever  might  be  his  more  agonized  and  fierce  emotions — 
he  never  affected  to  reproach  himself — he  never  bewailed  with 
a  vain  despair  their  approaching  separation.  Whatever  it  cost 
him,  he  stood  collected  and  stoical  in  the  intense  power  of  his 
self-control.  He  had  but  one  object — one  desire — one  hope — 
to  save  the  last  hours  of  Florence  Lascelles  from  every  pang — 
to  brighten  and  smooth  the  passage  across  the  Solemn  Bridge. 
His  forethought,  his  presence  of  mind,  his  care,  his  tenderness, 
never  forsook  him  for  an  instant ;  they  went  beyond  the  attri- 
butes of  men,  they  went  into  all  the  fine,  the  indescribable 
minutiai  by  which  woman  makes  herself  in  "pain  and  anguish" 
the  "  ministering  angel."  It  was  as  if  he  had  nerved  and  braced 
his  wliole  nature  to  one  duty — as  if  that  duty  was  more  felt  than 
affection  itself — as  if  he  were  resolved  that  Florence  should  not 
remember  that  she  had  no  mother! 

And  oh,  then,  how  Florence  loved  him  !  how  far  more  luxu- 
rious, in  its  grateful  and  clinging  fondness,  was  that  love,  than 
the  wild  and  jealous  fire  of  their  earlier  connection  !  Her  own 
character,  as  is  often  the  case  in  lingering  illness,  became  in- 
calculably more  gentle  and  softened  down  as  the  shadows 
closed  around  it.  She  loved  to  make  him  read  and  talk  to 
her — and  her  ancient  poetry  of  thought  now  grew  mellowed,  as 
it  were,  into  religion,  which  is  indeed  poetry  with  a  stronger 
wing.  .  .  .  There  was  a  world  beyond  the  grave  —  there  was 
life  out  of  the  chrysalis  sleep  of  death — they  would  yet  be  united. 
And  Maltravers,  who  was  a  solemn  and  intense  believer  in  the 
Great  Hope,  did  not  neglect  the  purest  and  highest  of  all  the 
fountains  of  solace. 

Often  in  that  quiet  room,  in  that  gorgeous  mansion  which 
had  been  the  scene  of  all  vain  or  worldly  schemes — of  'flirta- 
tions and  feastings,  and  political  meetings  and  cabinet  dinners, 
and  all  the  bubbles  of  the  passing  wave — often  there  did  these 
persons,  whose  position  to  each  other  had  been  so  suddenly 
and  so  strangely  changed — converse  on  those  matters — 
daring  and  divine — which  "make  the  bridal  of  the  earth 
and  sky." 

"How  fortunate  am  I,"  said  Florence,  one  day,  "that  my 
choice  fell  on  one  who  thinks  as  you  do !  How  your  words 
elevate  and  exalt  me  ! — yet  once  I  never  dreamt  of  asking  your 
creed  on  these  questions.  It  is  in  sorrow  or  sickness  that  we 
learn  why  Faith  was  given  as  a  soother  to  man — Faith,  which 
is  Hope  with  a  holier  name — hope  that  knows  neither  deceit 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  317 

nor  death.  Ah,  how  wisely  do  you  speak  of  the  pJiilosophy  of 
l)elief !  It  is,  indeed,  tlie  telescope  through  which  the  stars 
grow  large  upon  our  gaze.  And  to  you,  Ernest,  my  beloved — 
comprehended  and  known  at  last — to  you  I  leave,  when  I  am 
gone,  that  monitor — that  friend  ; — you  will  know  yourself  what 
you  teach  to  me.  And  when  you  look  not  on  the  heaven  alone 
but  in  all  space — on  all  the  illimitable  creation,  you  will  know 
that  I  am  there !  For  the  home  of  a  spirit  is  wherever  spreads 
the  Universal  Presence  of  God.  And  to  what  numerous  stages 
of  being,  what  paths,  what  duties,  what  active  and  glorious  tasks 
in  other  worlds  may  we  not  be  reserved — perhaps  to  know  and 
share  them  together,  and  mount  age  after  age  higher  in  the 
scale  of  being.  For  surely  in  heaven  there  is  no  pause  or  torpor — 
we  do  not  lie  down  in  calm  and  unimprovable  repose.  Move- 
ment and  progress  will  remain  the  law  and  condition  of  exist- 
ence. And  there  will  be  efforts  and  duties  for  us  above  as  there 
have  been  below." 

It  was  in  this  theory,  which  Maltravers  shared,  that  the 
character  of  Florence,  her  overflowing  life  and  activity  of 
thought,  her  aspirations,  her  ambition,  were  still  displayed.  It 
was  not  so  much  to  the  calm  and  rest  of  the  grave  that  she  ex- 
tended her  unreluctant  gaze,  as  to  the  light  and  glory  of  a  re- 
newed and  progressive  existence. 

It  was  while  thus  they  sate,  the  low  voice  of  Ernest,  tranquil 
yet  half  trembling  with  the  emotions  he  sought  to  restrain — 
sometimes  sobering,  sometimes  yet  more  elevating,  the  thoughts 
of  Florence,  that  Lord  Vargrave  was  announced,  and  Lumley 
Ferrers,  who  had  now  succeeded  to  that  title,  entered  the  room. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Florence  had  seen  him  since  the  death 
of  his  uncle — the  first  time  Maltravers  had  seen  him  since  the 
evening  so  fatal  to  Florence.  Both  started — Maltravers  rose 
and  walked  to  the  window.  Lord  Vargrave  took  the  hand  of 
his  cousin  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  in  silence,  while  his  looks 
betokened  feelings  that  for  once  were  genuine. 

"  You  see,  Lumley,  I  am  resigned,"  said  Florence,  with  a  sweet 
smile.     "I  am  resigned  and  happy." 

Lumley  glanced  at  Maltravers,  and  met  a  cold,  scrutinizing, 
piercing  eye,  from  which  he  shrank  with  some  confusion.  He 
recovered  himself  in  an  instant. 

"I  am  rejoiced,  my  cousin,  I  am  rejoiced,"  said  he,  very 
earnestly,  "to  see  Maltravers  here  again.  Let  us  now  hope  the 
best." 

Maltravers  walked  deliberately  up  to  Lumley, "  Will  you  take 
my  hand  now,  too?"  said  he,  with  deep  meaning  in  his  tone. 


3l8  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

"More  willingly  than  ever,"  said  Lumley;  and  he  did  not 
shrink  as  he  said  it. 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  replied  Maltravers,  after  a  pause,  and  in  a 
voice  that  expressed  more  than  his  words. 

There  is  in  some  natures  so  great  a  hoard  of  generosity,  that 
it  often  dulls  their  acuteness.  Maltravers  could  not  believe 
that  frankness  could  be  wholly  a  mask — it  was  an  hypocrisy  he 
knew  not  of.  He  himself  was  not  incapable,  had  circum- 
stances so  urged  him,  of  great  crimes ;  nay,  the  design  of  one 
crime  lay  at  that  moment  deadly  and  dark  within  his  heart,  for 
he  had  some  passions  which  in  so  resolute  a  character  could 
produce — should  the  wind  waken  them  into  storm — dvre  and 
terrible  effects.  Even  at  the  age  of  thirty,  it  was  y€t  uncertain 
whether  Ernest  Maltravers  might  become  an  exemplary  or  an 
evil  man.  But  he  could  sooner  have  strangled  a  foe  than  taken 
the  hand  of  a  man  he  had  once  betrayed. 

"  I  love  to  think  you  friends,"  said  Florence,  gazing  at  them 
affectionately,  "and  to  you,  at  least,  Lumley,  such  friendship 
should  be  a  blessing.  I  always  loved  you  much  and  dearly, 
Lumley — loved  you  as  a  brother,  though  our  characters  often 
jarred." 

Lumley  winced.  "For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  cried,  "do  not 
speak  thus  tenderly  to  me — I  cannot  bear  it,  and  look  on  you 
and  think — " 

"That  I  am  dying.  Kind  words  become  us  best,  when  our 
words  are  approaching  to  the  last.  But  enough  of  this — I 
grieved  for  your  loss." 

"  My  poor  uncle  !  "  said  Lumley,  eagerly  changing  the  con- 
versation— "  the  shock  was  sudden  ;  and  melancholy  duties 
have  absorbed  me  so  till  this  day,  that  I  could  not  come  even 
to  you.  It  soothed  me,  however,  to  learn,  in  answer  to  my 
daily  inquiries,  that  Ernest  was  here.  For  my  part,"  he  added 
with  a  faint  smile,  "  I  have  had  duties  as  well  as  honors  de- 
volved on  me.  I  am  left  guardian  to  an  heiress,  and  betrothed 
to  a  child." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  ray  poor  uncle  was  so  fondly  attached  to  his  wife's 
daughter,  that  he  has  left  her  the  bulk  of  his  property  ;  a  very 
small  estate — not  ^^2,000  a  year — goes  with  the  title — (a  new 
title,  too,  which  requires  twice  as  much  to  carry  it  off  and 
make  its  pinchbeck  pass  for  gold).  In  order,  however,  to  serve 
a  double  purpose,  secure  to  h\s  proUg^e  his  own  beloved  peer- 
age, and  atone  to  his  nephew  for  the  loss  of  wealth — he  has 
left  it  a  last  request  that  I  should  marry  the  young  lady  over 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  319 

whom  I  am  appointed  guardian,  when  she  is  eighteen — alas ! 
I  shall  then  be  at  the  other  side  of  forty  !  If  she  does  not  take 
to  so  mature  a  bridegroom,  she  loses  thirty — only  thirty,  of  the 
;^2oo,ooo  settled  upon  her,  which  goes  to  me  as  a  sugar-plum 
after  the  nauseous  draught  of  the  young  lady's  "  No."  Now 
you  know  all.  His  widow,  really  an  exemplary  young  woman, 
has  a  jointure  of  ;^i,5oo  a  year,  and  the  villa.  It  is  not  much, 
but  she  is  contented." 

The  lightness  of  the  new  peer's  tone  revolted  Maltravers, 
and  he  turned  impatiently  away.  But  Lord  Vargrave,  resolv- 
ing not  to  suffer  the  conversation  to  glide  back  to  sorrowful 
subjects,  which  he  always  hated,  turned  round  to  Ernest,  and 
said:  "Well,  my  dear  Ernest,  I  see  by  the  papers  that  you  are 

to  have  N 's  late  appointment — it  is  a  very  rising  office.     I 

congratulate  you." 

"I  have  refused,"  said  Maltravers  dryly. 

"  Bless  me  ! — indeed  ! — why  ?" 

Ernest  bit  his  lip  and  frowned ;  but,  his  glance  wandering 
unconsciously  at  Florence,  Lumley  thought  he  detected  the 
true  reply  to  his  question,  and  became  mute. 

The  conversation  was  afterwards  embarrassed  and  broken 
up  ;  Lumley  went  away  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  Lady  Florence 
that  night  had  a  severe  fit,  and  could  not  leave  her  bed  the 
next  day.  That  confinement  she  had  struggled  against  to  the 
last ;  and  now,  day  by  day,  it  grew  more  frequent  and  inev- 
itable. The  steps  of  Death  became  accelerated.  And  Lord 
Saxingham,  wakened  at  last  to  the  mournful  truth,  took  his 
place  by  his  daughter's  side,  and  forgot  that  he  was  a  cabinet 
minister. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

"Away,  my  friends,  why  take  such  pains  to  know. 
What  some  brave  marble  soon  in  church  shall  show  ?" — Crabbe. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  Maltravers  had  never  loved  Lady 
Florence  as  he  did  now.  Was  it  the  perversity  of  human  nature 
that  makes  the  things  of  mortality  dearer  to  us  in  proportion 
as  they  fade  from  our  hopes,  like  birds  whose  hues  are  only 
unfolded  when  they  take  wing  and  vanish  amidst  the  skies  ;  or 
was  it  that  he  had  ever  doted  more  on  loveliness  of  mind  than 
that  of  form,  and  the  first  bloomed  out  the  more,  the  more  the 
last  decayed  ?  A  thing  to  protect,  to  soothe,  to  shelter — oh, 
how  dear  it  is  to  the  pride  of  man  !     The  haughty  woman  who 


320  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

can  stand  alone  and  requires  no  leaning-place  in  our  heart, 
loses  tlie  spell  of  her  sex. 

1  pass  over  those  stages  of  decline  gratuitously  painful  to 
record  ;  and  which,  in  this  case,  mine  cannot  be  the  cold  and 
technical  hand  to  trace.  At  length  came  that  time  when  phy- 
sicians could  define  within  a  few  days  the  final  hour  of  release. 
And  latterly  the  mockfng  pruderies  of  rank  had  been  laid 
aside,  and  Maltravers  had,  for  some  hours  at  least  in  the  day, 
taken  his  watch  beside  the  couch  to  which  the  admired  and 
brilliant  Florence  Lascelleswas  now  almost  constantly  reduced. 
But  her  high  and  heroic  spirit  was  with  her  to  the  last.  To  the 
last  she  could  endure,  love,  and  hope.  One  day  when  Mal- 
travers left  his  post,  she  besought  him,  with  more  solemnity 
than  usual,  to  return  that  evening.  She  fixed  the  precise  hour, 
and  she  siglied  heavily  when  he  departed.  Maltravers  paused 
in  the  hall  to  speak  to  the  physician,  who  was  just  quitting 
Lord  Saxingham's  library.  Ernest  spoke  to  him  for  some  mo- 
ments calmly,  and  when  he  heard  the  fiat,  he  betrayed  no  other 
emotion  than  a  slight  quiver  of  the  lip  !  "  I  must  not  weep  for 
her  yet,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  from  the  door.  He  went 
thence  to  the  house  of  a  gentleman  of  his  own  age,  with  whom 
he  had  formed  that  kind  of  acquaintance  which  never  amounts 
to  familiar  friendship,  but  rests  upon  mutual  respect,  and  is 
often  more  ready  than  professed  friendship  itself  to  confer 
mutual  service.  Colonel  Danvers  was  a  man  who  usually  sat 
next  to  Maltravers  in  Parliament ;  they  voted  together,  and 
tliought  alike  on  principles  both  of  politics  and  honor :  they 
would  have  lent  thousands  to  each  other  without  bond  or 
memorandum  ;  and  neither  ever  wanted  a  warm  and  indignant 
advocate  when  he  was  abused  behind  his  back  in  the  presence 
of  the  other.  Yet  their  tastes  and  ordinary  habits  were  not 
congenial ;  and  when  they  met  in  the  streets,  they  never  said, 
as  they  would  to  companions  they  esteemed  less,  "  Let  us 
spend  the  day  together  !  "  Such  forms  of  acquaintance  are  not 
uncommon  among  honorable  men  who  have  already  formed 
habits  and  pursuits  of  their  own, which  they  cannot  surrender  even 
to  friendship.  Colonel  Danvers  was  not  at  home — they  be-- 
lieved  he  was  at  his  club,  of  which  Ernest  also  was  a  member. 
Thither  Maltravers  bent  his  way.  On  arriving,  he  found  that 
Danvers  had  been  at  the  club  an  hour  ago,  and  left  word  that 
he  should  shortly  return.  Maltravers  entered  and  quietly  sat 
down.  The  room  was  full  of  its  daily  loungers  ;  but  he  did 
not  shrink  from,  he  did  not  even  heed,  the  crowd.  He  felt 
not  the  desire  of  solitude — there  was  solitude  enough  withia 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  32 1 

him.  Several  distinguished  public  men  were  there,  grouped 
around  the  fire,  and  many  of  the  hangers-on  and  satellites  of 
political  life ;  they  were  talking  with  eagerness  and  animation, 
for  it  was  a  season  of  great  party-conflict.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  though  Maltravers  was  then  scarcely  sensible  of  their 
conversation,  it  all  came  back  vividly  and  faithfully  on  him 
afterwards,  in  the  first  hours  of  reflection  on  his  own  future 
plans,  and  served  to  deepen  and  consolidate  his  disgust  of  the 
world.  They  were  discussing  the  character  of  a  great  states- 
man whom,  warmed  but  by  the  loftiest  and  purest  motives,  they 
were  unable  to  understand.  Their  gross  suspicions,  their  coarse 
jealousies,  their  calculations  of  patriotism  by  place — all  that 
strips  the  varnish  from  the  face  of  that  fair  harlot.  Political 
Ambition, — sank  like  caustic  into  his  spirit.  A  gentleman,  see- 
ing him  sit  silent,  with  his  hat  over  his  moody  brows,  civilly 
extended  to  him  the  paper  he  was  reading. 

"  It  is  the  second  edition ;  you  will  find  the  last  French 
express." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maltravers;  and  the  civil  man  started 
as  he  heard  the  brief  answer ;  there  was  something  so  inex- 
pressibly prostrate  and  broken-spirited  in  the  voice  that  ut- 
tered it. 

Maltravers's  eyes  fell  mechanically  on  the  columns,  and 
caught  his  own  name.  That  work  which,  in  the  fair  retirement 
of  Temple  Grove,  it  had  so  pleased  him  to  compose — in  every 
page  and  every  thought  of  which  Florence  had  been  consulted — 
which  was  so  inseparably  associated  with  her  image,  and  glorified 
by  the  light  of  her  kindred  genius — was  just  published.  It  had 
been  completed  long  since ;  but  the  publisher  had,  for  some 
excellent  reason  of  the  craft,  hitherto  delayed  its  appearance. 
Maltravers  knew  nothing  of  its  publication  ;  he  had  meant, 
after  his  return  to  town,  to  have  sent  to  forbid  its  appearance ; 
but  his  thoughts  of  late  had  crushed  everything  else  out  of  his 
memory — he  had  forgotten  its  existence.  And  now,  in  all  the 
pomp  and  parade  of  authorship,  it  was  sent  into  the  world ! 
Now,  nozv,  when  it  was  like  an  indecent  mockery  of  the  Bed  of 
Death — a  sacrilege,  an  impiety  !  There  is  a  terrible  discon- 
nection between  the  author  and  the  man — the  author's  life  and 
the  man's  life — the  eras  of  visible  triumph  may  be  those  of  the 
most  intolerable,  though  unrevealed  and  unconjectured  anguish. 
The  book  that  delighted  us  to  compose  may  first  appear  in  the 
hour  when  all  things  under  the  sun  are  joyless.  This  had  been 
Ernest  Maltravers's  most  favored  work.  It  had  been  conceived 
in  a  happy  hour  of  great  ambition — it  had  been  executed  with 


322  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

that  desire  of  truth  which,  in  the  mind  of  genius,  becomes  Art 
How  little,  in  the  solitary  hours  stolen  from  sleep,  had  he  thought 
of  self,  and  that  laborer's  hire  called  "fame!"  How  had  he. 
dreamed  that  he  was  promulgating  secrets  to  make  his  kind 
better,  and  wiser,  and  truer  to  the  great  aims  of  life  !  How 
had  Florence,  and  Florence  alone,  understood  the  beatings  of 
his  heart  in  every  page  !  And  timv ! — it  so  chanced  that  the 
work  was  reviewed  in  the  paper  he  read — it  was  not  only  a 
hostile  criticism,  it  was  a  personally  abusive  diatribe,  a  virulent 
invective.  All  the  motives  that  can  darken  or  defile  were 
ascribed  to  him.  All  the  mean  spite  of  some  mean  mind  was 
sputtered  forth.  Had  the  writer  known  the  awful  blow  that 
awaited  Maltravers  at  that  time,  it  is  not  in  man's  nature  but 
that  he  would  have  shrunk  from  this  petty  gall  upon  the  wrung 
withers  ;  but,  as  I  have  said,  there  is  a  terrible  disconnection 
between  the  author  and  the  man.  The  first  is  always  at  our 
mercy — of  the  last  we  know  nothing.  At  such  an  hour  Mal- 
travers could  feel  none  of  the  contempt  that  proud — none  of 
the  wrath  that  vain — minds  feel  at  these  stings.  He  could 
feel  nothing  but  an  undefined  abhorrence  of  the  world,  and  of 
the  aims  and  objects  he  had  pursued  so  long.  Yet  that  even 
he  did  not  then  feel.  He  was  in  a  dream  ;  but  as  men  remem- 
ber dreams,  so  when  he  awoke  did  he  loathe  his  own  former 
aspirations,  and  sicken  at  their  base  rewards.  It  was  the  first 
time  since  his  first  year  of  inexperienced  authorship,  that  abuse 
had  had  the  power  even  to  vex  him  for  a  moment.  But  here, 
when  the  cup  was  already  full,  was  the  drop  that  overflowed. 
The  great  column  of  his  past  world  was  gone,  and  all  else 
seemed  crumbling  away. 

At  length  Colonel  Danvers  entered.  Maltravers  drew  him 
aside,  and  they  left  the  club. 

"Danvers,"  said  the  latter,  "the  time  in  which  I  told  you  I 
should  need  your  services  is  near  at  hand  ;  let  me  see  you,  if 
possible,  to-night." 

"Certainly — I  shall  be  at  the  House  till  eleven.  After  that 
hour  you  will  find  me  at  home." 

"  I  thank  you." 

"  Cannot  this  matter  be  arranged  amicably  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  a  quarrel  of  life  and  death." 

"  Yet  the  world  is  really  growing  too  enlightened  for  these 
old  mimicries  of  single  combat." 

"  There  are  some  cases  in  which  human  nature  and  its  deep 
wrongs  will  be  ever  stronger  than  the  world  and  its  philosophy. 
Duels  and  wars  belong  to  the  same  principle ;  both  are  sinful 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  323 

on  light  grounds  and  poor  pretexts.  But  it  is  not  sinful  for  a 
soldier  to  defend  his  country  from  invasion,  nor  for  man  with 
a  man's  heart  to  vindicate  truth  and  honor  with  his  life.  The 
robber  that  asks  me  for  money  I  am  allowed  to  shoot.  Is  the 
robber  that  tears  from  me  treasures  never  to  be  replaced,-  to  go 
free?  These  are  the  inconsistencies  of  a  pseudo-ethics  which, 
as  long  as  we  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  we  can  never  sub- 
scribe to." 

"Yet  the  ancients,"  said  Danvers  with  a  smile,  "were  as 
passionate  as  ourselves,  and  they  dispensed  with  duels." 

"Yes,  because  they  resorted  to  assassination!"  answered 
Maltravers,  with  a  gloomy  frown.  "  As  in  revolutions  all  law  is 
suspended,  so  are  there  stormy  events  and  mighty  injuries 
in  life,  which  are  as  revolutions  to  individuals.  Enough  of 
this — it  is  no  time  to  argue  like  the  school-men.  When  we 
meet  you  shall  know  all,  and  you  will  judge  like  me.  Good- 
day  ! "  . 

"  What,  are  you  going  already  ?  Maltravers,  you  look  ill, 
your  hand  is  feverish — you  should  take  advice." 

Maltravers  smiled — but  the  smile  was  not  like  his  own — 
shook  his  head,  and  strode  rapidly  away. 

Three  of  the  London  clocks,  one  after  the  other,  had  told 
the  hour  of  nine,  as  a  tall  and  commanding  figure  passed  up 
the  street  towards  Saxingham  House.  Five  doors  before 
you  reach  that  mansion  there  is  a  crossing,  and  at  this  spot 
stood  a  young  man  in  whose  face  youth  itself  looked  sapless 
and  blasted.  It  was  then  March, — the  third  of  March ;  the 
weather  was  unusually  severe  and  biting,  even  for  that  angry 
month.  There  had  been  snow  in  the  morning,  and  it  lay  white 
and  dreary  in  various  ridges  along  the  street.  But  the  wind 
was  not  still  in  the  keen  but  quiet  sharpness  of  frost ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  howled  almost  like  a  hurricane  through  the  deso- 
late thoroughfares,  and  the  lamps  flickered  unsteadily  in  the 
turbulent  gusts.  Perhaps  it  was  these  blasts  which  increased 
the  haggardness  of  aspect  in  the  young  man  I  have  mentioned. 
His  hair,  which  was  much  longer  than  is  commonly  worn,  was 
tossed  wildly  from  cheeks  preternaturally  shrunken,  hollow, 
and  livid  :  and  the  frail,  thin  form  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
support  itself  against  the  rush  of  the  winds. 

As  the  tall  figure,  which,  in  its  masculine  stature  and  propor- 
tions, and  a  peculiar  and  nameless  grandeur  of  bearing,  strongly 
contrasted  that  of  the  younger  man, — now  came  to  the  spot 
where  the  streets  met,  it  paused  abruptly. 

"  You  are  here  once  more,  Castruccio  Cesarini — it  is  well !  " 


324  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

said  the  low  but  ringing  voice  of  Ernest  Maltravers.  "  This,  I 
believe,  will  not  be  our  last  interview  to-night." 

**  I  ask  you,  sir,"  said  Cesarini,  in  a  tone  in  which  pride  strug- 
gled with  emotion — "  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  how  she  is — whether 
yon  know — I  cannot  speak — " 

"Your  work  is  nearly  done,"  answered  Maltravers.  "A  few 
hours  more,  and  your  victim,  for  she  is  yours,  will  bear  her  tale 
to  the  Great  Judgment-Seat.  Murderer  as  you  are,  tremble,  for 
your  own  hour  approaches!" 

"She  dies  and  I  cannot  see  her !  and  you  are  permitted  that 
last  glimpse  of  human  perfectness — you  who  never  loved  her  as 
I  did — you  ! — hated  and  detested  ! — you — " 

Cesarini  paused,  and  his  voice  died  away,  choked  in  his  own 
convulsive  gaspings  for  breath. 

Maltravers  looked  at  him  from  the  height  of  his  erect  and 
lofty  form,  with  a  merciless  eye  ;  for  in  this  one  quarter  Mal- 
travers had  shut  out  pity  from  his  soul. 

"  Weak  criminal !  "  said  he,  "  hear  me.  You  received  at  my 
hands  forbearance,  friendship,  fostering  and  anxious  care.  When 
your  own  follies  plunged  you  into  penury,  mine  was  the  unseen 
hand  that  plucked  you  from  famine  or  the  prison.  I  strove  to 
redeem,  and  save,  and  raise  you,  and  endow  your  miserable  spirit 
with  the  thirst  and  the  power  of  honor  and  independence.  The 
agent  of  that  wish  was  Florence  Lascelles — you  repaid  us  well! — 
base  and  fraudulent  forgery,  attaching  meanness  tome,  fraught 
with  agony  and  death  to  her.  Your  conscience  at  last  smote 
you — you  revealed  to  her  your  crime — one  spark  of  manhood 
made  you  reveal  it  also  to  myself.  Fresh  as  I  was,  in  that  mo- 
ment, from  the  contemplation  of  the  ruin  you  had  made,  I 
curbed  the  impulse  that  would  have  crushed  the  life  from  your 
bosom.  I  told  you  to  live  on  while  life  was  left  to  her.  If  she 
recovered  I  could  forgive,  if  she  died  I  must  avenge.  We  en- 
tered into  that  solemn  compact,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  bond 
will  need  the  seal — it  is  the  blood  of  one  of  us.  Castruccio 
Cesarini,  there  is  justice  in  heaven.  Deceive  5'ourself  not — you 
will  fall  by  my  hand.  When  the  hour  comes,  you  will  hear 
from  me.     Let  me  pass — I  have  no  more  now  to  say." 

Every  syllable  of  this  speech  was  uttered  with  that  thrilling 
distinctness  which  seems  as  if  the  depth  of  the  heart  spoke  in 
the  voice.  But  Cesarini  did  not  appear  to  understand  its  im- 
port. He  seized  Maltravers  by  the  arm,  and  looked  in  his  face 
with  a  wild  and  menacing  glare. 

"  Did  you  tell  me  she  was  dying  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  ask  you  that 
question,  why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?     Oh,  by  the  way,  you 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  325 

threaten  me  with  your  vengeance.  Know  you  not  that  I  long  to 
meet  you  front  to  front  and  to  the  death  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you 
so — did  I  not  try  to  move  your  slow  blood — to  insult  you  into 
a  conflict  in  which  I  should  have  gloried  ?  Yet  then  you  were 
marble." 

"Because  my  wrong  I  could  forgive,  and  hers — there  was  then 
a  hope  that  hers  might  not  need  the  atonement.     Away  ! " 

Maltravers  shook  the  hold  of  the  Italian  from  his  arm,  and 
passed  on.  A  wild,  sharp  yell  of  despair  rang  after  him,  and 
echoed  in  his  ear  as  he  strode  the  long,  dim,  solitary  stairs  that 
led  to  the  deathbed  of  Florence  Lascelles. 

Maltravers  entered  the  room  adjoining  that  which  contained 
the  sufferer, — the  same  room,  still  gay  and  cheerful,  in  which  had 
been  his  first  interview  with  Florence  since  their  reconciliation. 

Here  he  found  the  physician  dozing  in  a  fauteuil.  Lady  Flor- 
ence had  fallen  asleep  during  the  last  two  or  three  hours.  Lord 
Saxingham  was  in  his  own  apartment,  deeply  and  noisily  affect- 
ed, for  it  was  not  thought  that  Florence  could  survive  the  night. 

Maltravers  sate  himself  quietly  down.  Before  him,  on  a  table, 
lay  several  manuscript  books  gayly  and  gorgeously  bound  ;  he 
mechanically  opened  them.  Florence's  fair,  noble,  Italian  cha- 
racters met  his  eye  in  every  page.  Her  rich  and  active  mind — 
her  love  for  poetry — her  thirst  for  knowledge — her  indulgence 
of  deep  thought — spoke  from  those  pages  like  the  ghosts  of  her- 
self. Often,  underscored  with  the  marks  of  her  approbation, 
he  chanced  upon  extracts  from  his  own  works,  sometimes  upon 
reflections  by  the  writer  herself,  not  inferior  in  truth  and  depth 
to  his  own  ;  snatches  of  wild  verse  never  completed,  but  of  a 
power  and  energy  beyond  the  delicate  grace  of  lady-poets ; 
brief,  vigorous  criticisms  on  books  above  the  common  holiday 
studies  of  the  sex ;  indignant  and  sarcastic  aphorisms  on  the 
real  world,  with  high  and  sad  bursts  of  feeling  upon  the  ideal 
one  ;  all,  checkering  and  enriching  the  varied  volumes,  told  of 
the  rare  gifts  with  which  this  singular  girl  was  endowed — a  her- 
bal, as  it  were,  of  withered  blossoms  that  might  have  borne  Hes- 
perian fruits.  And  sometimes  in  these  outpourings  of  the  full 
mind  and  laden  heart  were  allusions  to  himself,  so  tender  and 
so  touching — the  pencilled  outline  of  his  features  traced  by 
memory  in  a  thousand  aspects — the  reference  to  former  inter- 
views and  conversations — the  dates  and  hours  marked  with  a 
woman's  minute  and  treasuring  care, — all  these  tokens  of  genius 
and  of  love  spoke  to  him  with  a  voice  that  said,  "  And  this  crea- 
ture is  lost  to  you  forever  :  you  never  appreciated  her  till  the 
time  for  her  departure  was  irrevocably  fixed  ! " 


3^6  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Maltravers  uttered  a  deep  groan  ;  all  the  past  rushed  over 
him.  Her  romantic  passion  for  one  yet  unknown — her  interest 
in  his  glory — her  zeal  for  his  life  of  life,  his  spotless  and  haughty 
name.  It  was  as  if,  with  her.  Fame  and  Ambition  were  dying 
also,  and  henceforth  nothing  but  common  clay  and  sordid  mo- 
tives were  to  be  left  on  earth. 

How  sudden — how  awfully  sudden  had  been  the  blow  !  True, 
there  had  been  an  absence  of  some  months  in  which  the  change 
had  operated.  But  absence  is  a  blank — a  nonentity.  He  had 
left  her  in  apparent  health — in  the  tide  of  prosperity  and  pride. 
He  saw  her  again — stricken  down  in  body  and  temper — chas- 
tened— humbled — dying.  And  this  being,  so  bright  and  lofty, 
how  had  she  loved  him  !  Never  had  he  been  so  loved,  except 
in  that  morning  dream  haunted  by  the  vision  of  the  lost  and 
dim-remembered  Alice.  Never  on  earth  could  he  be  so  loved 
again.  The  air  and  aspect  of  the  whole  chamber  grew  to  him 
painful  and  oppressive.  It  was  full  of  her — the  owner  !  There 
the  harp,  which  so  well  became  her  muse -like  form  that  it  was 
associated  with  her  like  a  part  of  herself !  There  the  pictures, 
fresh  and  glowing  from  her  hand, — the  giace — the  harmony — 
the  classic  and  simple  taste  everywhere  displayed  ! 

Rousseau  has  left  to  us  an  immortal  portrait  of  the  lover  wait- 
ing for  the  first  embraces  of  his  mistress.  But  to  wait  with  a 
pulse  as  feverish,  a  brain  as  dizzy,  for  her  last  look — to  await 
the  moment  of  despair,  not  rapture — to  feel  the  slow  and  dull 
time  as  palpable  a  load  upon  the  heart,  yet  to  shrink  from  your 
own  impatience,  and  wish  that  the  agony  of  suspense  might  en- 
dure for  ever — this,  oh,  this  is  a  picture  of  intense  passion — of 
flesh-and-blood  reality — of  the  rare  and  solemn  epochs  of  our 
mysterious  life — which  had  been  worthier  the  genius  of  that 
"Apostle  of  Affliction  !  " 

At  length  the  door  opened  ;  the  favorite  attendant  of  Florence 
looked  in. 

"  Is  Mr.  Maltravers  there  ?  Oh,  sir,  my  lady  is  awake  and 
would  see  you." 

Maltravers  rose,  but  his  feet  were  glued  to  the  ground,  his 
sinking  heart  stood  still — it  was  a  mortal  terror  that  possessed 
him.  With  a  deep  sigh  he  shook  off  the  numbing  spell,  and 
passed  to  the  bedside  of  Florence. 

She  sate  up,  propped  by  pillows,  and  as  he  sank  beside  her, 
and  clasped  her  wan,  transparent  hand,  she  looked  at  him  with 
a  smile  of  pitying  love. 

"  You  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said,  after  a  pause, 
and  with  a  voice  which  had  altered  even  since  the  last  time  he 


ERNEST    MALTRAVER5.  327 

heard  it.  "You  have  made  that  part  of  life  from  which  human 
nature  shrinks  with  dread,  the  happiest  and  the  brightest  of  all 
my  short  and  vain  existence.  My  own  dear  Ernest — Heaven 
reward  you  !  " 

A  few  grateful  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes,  and  they  fell  on 
the  hand  which  she  bent  her  lips  to  kiss. 

*'  It  was  not  here — not  amidst  streets  and  the  noisy  abodes  of 
anxious,  worldly  men — nor  was  it  in  this  harsh  and  dreary  sea- 
son of  the  year,  that  I  could  have  wished  to  look  my  last  on 
earth.  Could  I  have  seen  the  face  of  Nature — could  I  have 
watched  once  more  with  the  summer  sun  amidst  those  gentle 
scenes  we  loved  so  well.  Death  would  have  had  no  difference 
from  sleep.  But  what  matters  it?  With  you  there  are  summer 
and  Nature  everywhere?" 

Maltravers  raised  his  face,  and  their  eyes  met  in  silence — it 
was  a  long,  fixed  gaze  which  spoke  more  than  all  words  could. 
Her  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  it  lay,  passive  and 
motionless,  for  some  moments.  A  soft  step  glided  into  the 
room — it  was  the  unhappy  father's.  He  came  to  the  other  side 
of  his  daughter,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

She  then  raised  herself,  and  even  in  the  shades  of  death  a 
faint  blush  passed  over  her  cheek. 

"  My  good,  dear  father,  what  comfort  will  it  give  you  here- 
after to  think  how  fondly  you  spoiled  your  Florence ! " 

Lord  Saxingham  could  not  answer  :  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms 
and  wept  over  her.  Then  he  broke  away — looked  on  her  with 
a  shudder — 

"  Oil,  God  ! "  he  cried,  "  she  is  dead — she  is  dead  !  " 

Maltravers  started.  The  physician  kindly  approached,  and 
taking  Lord  Saxingham's  hand,  led  him  from  the  room — he  went 
mute  and  obedient  like  a  child. 

But  the  struggle  was  not  yet  past.  Florence  once  more  opened 
her  eyes,  and  Maltravers  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  But  along  those 
eyes  the  film  was  darkening  rapidly,  as  still  through  the  mist  and 
shadow  they  sought  the  beloved  countenance  which  hung  over 
her,  as  if  to  breathe  life  into  waning  life.  Twice  her  lips  moved, 
but  her  voice  failed,  she  shook  her  head  sadly. 

Maltravers  held  to  her  mouth  a  cordial  which  lay  ready  on 
the  table  near  her,  but  scarce  had  it  moistened  her  lips  when 
her  whole  frame  grew  heavier  and  heavier  in  his  clasp.  Her 
head  once  more  sank  upon  his  bosom — she  thrice  gasped  wildly 
for  breath — and  at  length,  raising  her  hand  on  high,  life  struggled 
into  its  expiring  ray. 

**  There — above  ! — Ernest — that  name — Ernest !  " 


328  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

Yes,  that  name  was  the  last  she  uttered  ;  she  was  evidently 
conscious  of  that  thought,  for  a  smile,  as  her  voice  again  fal- 
tered— a  smile  sweet  and  serene — that  smile  never  seen  but  on 
the  faces  of  the  dying  and  tlie  dead — borrowed  from  a  light  that 
is  not  of  this  world — settled  slowly  on  her  brow,  her  lips,  her 
whole  countenance  ;  still  she  breathed,  but  the  breath  grew 
fainter;  at  length,  without  murmur,  sound,  or  struggle,  it  passed 
away — the  head  dropped  from  his  bosom — the  form  fell  from 
his  arms — all  was  over ' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

•I  *      *     ♦     Is  this  the  promised  end  ?  " — Lear. 

It  was  two  houis  after  that  scene  before  Maltravers  left  the 
house.  It  was  then  just  on  the  stroke  of  the  first  hour  of  morn- 
ing. To  him,  while  he  walked  through  the  streets,  and  the  sharp 
winds  howled  on  his  path,  it  was  as  if  a  strange  and  wizard  life 
had  passed  into  and  supported  him — a  sort  of  drowsy,  dull  ex- 
istence. He  was  like  a  sleep-walker,  unconscious  of  all  around 
him ;  yet  his  steps  went  safe  and  free ;  and  the  one  thought 
that  possessed  his  being — into  which  all  intellect  seemed 
shrunk — the  thought,  not  fiery  nor  vehement,  but  calm,  stern, 
and  solemn — the  thought  of  revenge — seemed,  as  it  were,  grown 
his  soul  itself.  He  arrived  at  the  door  of  Colonel  Danvers, 
mounted  the  stairs,  and,  as  his  friend  advanced  to  meet  him, 
said  calmly,  "Now,  then,  the  hour  has  arrived." 

"  But  what  would  you  do  now?" 

"Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  learn." 

"  Very  well, my  carriage  is  below.  Will  you  direct  the  servants?" 

Maltravers  nodded,  gave  his  orders  to  the  careless  footman, 
and  the  two  friends  were  soon  driving  through  the  less-known 
and  courtly  regions  of  the  giant  city.  It  was  then  that  Mal- 
travers concisely  stated  to  Danvers  the  fraud  that  had  been 
practised  by  Cesarini. 

'*  You  will  go  with  me  now,"  concluded  Maltravers,  "  to  his 
house.  To  do  him  justice,  he  is  no  coward  ;  he  has  not  shrunk 
from  giving  me  his  address,  nor  will  he  shrink  from  the  atone- 
ment I  demand.  I  shall  wait  below  while  you  arrange  our  meet- 
ing— at  daybreak  for  to-morrow." 

Danvers  was  astonished  and  even  appalled  by  the  discovery 
made  to  him.  There  was  something  so  unusual  and  strange  in 
the  whole  affair.  But  neither  his  experience,  nor  his  principles 
of  honor,  could  suggest  any  alternative  to  the  plan  proposed. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  329 

For  though  not  regarding  the  cause  of  quarrel  in  the  same 
light  as  Maltravers,  and  putting  aside  all  question  as  to  the  right 
of  the  lacier  to  constitute  himself  the  champion  of  the  betrothed 
or  the  avenger  of  the  dead,  it  seemed  clear  to  the  soldier  that 
a  man  whose  confidential  letter  had  been  garbled  by  anothei 
for  the  purpose  of  slandering  his  truth  and  calumniating  his 
name  had  no  option  but  contempt,  or  the  sole  retribution 
(wretclied  though  it  be)  which  the  customs  of  the  higher  class 
permit  to  those  who  live  within  its  pale.  But  contempt  for  a 
wrong  that  a  sorrow  so  tragic  had  followed — was  thai  option  in 
human  philosophy  ? 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  door  in  a  narrow  lane  in  an  obscure 
suburb.  Yet,  dark  as  all  the  houses  around  were,  lights  were 
seen  in  the  upper  windows  of  Cesarini's  residence,  passing  to 
and  fro;  and  scarce  had  the  servant's  loud  knock  echoed  through 
the  dim  thoroughfare,  ere  the  door  was  opened.  Dan  vers  de- 
scended, and  entered  the  passage — "  Oh,  sir,  I  am  so  glad  you 
are  come  ! "  said  an  old  woman,  pale  and  trembling ;  "he  do  take 
on  so ! " 

"Tiiere  is  no  mistake,"  asked  Danvers,  halting;  "an  Italian 
gentleman  named  Cesarini  lodges  here.'" 

"  Yes,  sir,  poor  cretur — I  sent  for  you  to  come  to  him — for  says 
I  to  my  boy,  says  I — " 

"Whom  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"Why,  la,  sir,  you  be's  the  doctor,  ben't  you?" 

Danvers  made  no  reply  ;  he  had  a  mean  opinion  of  the  cour- 
age of  one  who  could  act  dishonorably ;  he  thought  there  was 
some  design  to  cheat  his  friend  out  of  his  revenge  ;  accordingly 
he  ascended  the  stairs,  motioning  the  woman  to  precede  him. 

He  came  back  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  in  a  few  minutes. 
"Let  us  go  home,  Maltravers,"  said  he,  "this  man  is  not  in  a 
state  to  meet  you." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Maltravers,  frowning  darkly,  and  all  his  long- 
smothered  indignation  rushing  like  fire  through  every  vein  of  his 
body;  "  would  he  shrink  from  the  atonement  ? "  He  pushed  Dan- 
vers impatiently  aside,  leapt  from  the  carriage,  and  rushed  up- 
stairs. 

Danvers  followed. 

Heated,  wrought-up,  furious,  Ernest  Maltravers  burst  into  a 
small  and  squalid  chamber ;  from  the  closed  doors  of  which, 
through  many  chinks,  had  gleamed  the  light  that  told  him  Ces- 
arini was  within.  And  Cesarini's  eyes,  blazing  with  horrible  fire, 
were  the  first  object  that  met  his  gaze.  Maltravers  Stood  §tiU, 
as  if  frozen  intp  stpue, 


33©  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  a  shrill  and  shrieking  voice,  which  con- 
trasted dreadly  with  the  accents  of  the  soft  Tuscan  in  which  the 
wild  words  were  strung — "who  comes  here  with  garments  dyed 
in  blood  ?  You  cannot  accuse  me — for  my  blow  drew  no  blood, 
it  went  straight  to  the  heart — rt  tore  no  flesh  by  the  way;  we  Ital- 
ians poison  our  victims  !  Where  art  thou — where  art  thou,  Mal- 
travers?  I  am  ready.  Coward,  you  do  not  come  !  Oh,  yes,  here 
you  are ;  the  pistols — I  will  not  fight  so.  I  am  a  wild  beast. 
Let  us  rend  each  other  with  our  teeth  and  talons ! " 

Huddled  up  like  a  heap  of  confused  and  jointless  limbs  in  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  room,  lay  the  wretch,  a  raving  maniac, — 
two  men  keeping  their  firm  gripe  on  him,  which,  ever  and  anon, 
with  the  mighty  strength  of  madness,  he  shook  off,  to  fall  back 
senseless  and  exhausted  ;  his  strained  and  bloodshot  eyes  start- 
ing from  their  sockets,  the  slaver  gathering  round  his  lips,  his 
raven  hair  standing  on  end,  his  delicate  and  symmetrical  fea- 
tures distorted  into  a  hideous  and  Gorgon  aspect.  It  was,  indeed, 
an  appalling  and  sublime  spectacle,  full  of  an  awful  moral,  the 
meeting  of  the  foes  !  Here  stood  Maltravers,  strong  beyond  the 
common  strength  of  men,  in  health,  power,  conscious  superiority, 
premeditated  vengeance — wise,  gifted  ;  all  his  faculties  ripe,  de- 
veloped, at  his  command  ;  the  complete  and  all-armed  man, 
prepared  for  defence  and  offence  against  every  foe — a  man  who 
once  roused  in  arighteous  quarrel,  would  not  have  quailed  before 
an  army ;  and  there  and  thus  was  his  dark  and  fierce  purpose 
dashed  from  his  soul,  shivered  into  atoms  at  his  feet.  He  felt 
the  nothingness  of  man  and  man's  wrath — in  the  presence  of  the 
madman  on  whose  head  the  thunderbolt  of  a  greater  curse  than 
human  anger  ever  breathes  had  fallen.  In  his  horrible  afflic- 
tion the  Criminal  triumphed  over  the  Avenger ! 

"  Yes !  yes  ! "  shouted  Cesarini  again  ;  "  they  tell  me  she  is  dy- 
ing :  but  he  is  by  her  side — pluck  him  thence — he  shall  not 
touch  her  hand — she  shall  not  bless  him — she  is  mine — if  I 
killed  her,  I  have  saved  her  from  him — she  is  mine  in  death. 
Let  me  in,  I  say, — I  will  come  in, — I  will,  I  will  see  her,  and 
strangle  him  at  her  feet."  With  that,  by  a  tremendous  effort, 
he  tore  himself  from  the  clutch  of  his  holders,  and  with  a  sud- 
den and  exultant  bound  sprang  across  the  room,  and  stood  face 
to  face  to  Maltravers.  The  proud,  brave  man  turned  pale  and 
recoiled  a  step — "It  is  he !  it  is  he  !"  shrieked  the  maniac,  and 
he  leaped  like  a  tiger  at  the  throat  of  his  rival.  Maltravers  quickly 
seized  his  arm,  and  whirled  him  round.  Cesarini  fell  heavily  on 
the  floor,  mute,  senseless,  and  in  strong  convulsions. 

"  Mysterious  PrgvidenQe !  *'  murnjuTed  Maltravers,  "  thou  hast 


ERNEST  MALTR AVERS.  331 

justly  rebuked  the  mortal  for  dreaming  he  might  arrogate  to 
himself  thy  privilege  of  vengeance.  Forgive  the  sinner,  O  God, 
as  I  do — as  thou  teachest  this  stubborn  heart  to  forgive — as  she 
forgave  who  is  now  with  thee,  a  blessed  saint  in  heaven  !  " 

When,  some  minutes  afterwards,  the  doctor,  who  had  been  sent 
for,  arrived,  the  head  of  the  stricken  patient  lay  on  the  lap  of  his 
foe,  and  it  was  the  hand  of  Maltravers  that  wiped  the  froth  from 
the  white  lips,  and  the  voice  of  Maltravers  that  strove  to  soothe, 
and  the  tears  of  Maltravers  that  were  falling  on  that  fiery  brow. 

"Tend  him,  sir,  tend  him  as  my  brother,"  said  Maltravers, 
hiding  his  face  as  he  resigned  the  charge.  "Let  him  have  all 
that  can  alleviate  and  cure — remove  him  hence  to  some  fitter 
abode — send  for  the  best  advice.  Restore  him,  and — and — " 
He  could  say  no  more,  but  left  the  room  abruptly. 

It  was  afterwards  ascertained  that  Cesarini  had  remained  in 
the  streets  afte'  his  short  interview  with  Ernest ;  that  at  length 
he  had  knocked  at  Lord  Saxingham's  door,  just  in  the  very  hour 
when  death  had  claimed  its  victim.  He  heard  the  announce- 
ment— he  sought  to  force  his  way  upstairs — they  thrust  him  from 
the  house,  and  nothing  more  of  him  was  known  till  he  arrived  at 
his  own  door,  an  hour  before  Danvers  and  Maltravers  came,  in 
raging  frenzy.  Perhaps  by  one  of  the  dim  erratic  gleams  of  light 
which  always  checker  the  darkness  of  insanity,  he  retained  some 
faint  remembrance  of  his  compact  and  assignation  with  Mal- 
travers, which  had  happily  guided  his  steps  back  to  his  abode. 


•It  was  two  months  after  this  scene,  a  lovely  Sabbath  morning, 
in  the  earliest  May,  as  Lumley,  Lord  Vargrave,  sate  alone  by  the 
window  in  his  late  uncle's  villa,  in  his  late  uncle's  easy-chair — 
his  eyes  were  resting  musingly  on  the  green  lawn  on  which  the 
windows  opened,  or  rather  on  two  forms  that  were  seated  upon 
a  rustic  bench  in  the  middle  of  the  sward.  One  was  the  widow 
in  her  weeds,  the  other  was  that  fair  and  lovely  child  destined 
to  be  the  bride  of  the  new  lord.  The  hands  of  the  mother  and 
daughter  were  clasped  in  each.  There  was  sadness  in  the  faces 
of  both — deeper  if  more  resigned  on  that  of  the  elder,  for  the 
child  sought  to  console  her  parent,  and  grief  in  childhood  comes 
with  a  butterfly's  wing. 

Lumley  gazed  on  them  both,  and  on  the  child  more  earnestly. 

"She  is  very  lovely,"  he  said  ;  "she  will  be  very  rich.  After 
all,  I  am  not  to  be  be  pitied.  I  am  a  peer,  and  I  have  enough 
to  live  upon  at  present,  I  am  a  rising  man — our  party  want 
peers ;  and  though  I  could  not  have  had  more  than  a  subaltern's 


332  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

seat  at  the  Treasury  Board  six  months  ago,  when  I  was  an  ac- 
tive, zealous,  able  commoner,  now  that  I  am  a  lord,  with  what 
they  call  a  stake  in  the  country,  I  may  open  my  mouth  and — 
bless  me!  I  know  not  how  many  windfalls  may  drop  in  !  My  un- 
cle was  wiser  than  I  thought  in  wrestling  for  tliis  peerage,  w  hich 
he  won  and  I  wear !  Then,  by  and  by,  just  at  the  age  when  I 
want  to  marry  and  have  an  heir  (and  a  pretty  wife  saves  one  a 
vast  deal  of  trouble),  ^^200,000  and  a  young  beauty  !  Come, 
come,  I  have  strong  cards  in  my  hands  if  I  play  them  tolerably. 
I  must  take  care  that  she  falls  desperately  in  love  with  me. 
Leave  me  alone  for  that — I  know  the  sex,  and  have  never  failed 
except  in —  ah,  that  poor  Florence !  Well,  it  is  no  use  regret- 
ting !  Like  thrifty  artists,  we  must  paint  out  the  unmarketable 
picture,  and  call  luckier  creations  to  fill  up  the  same  canvas  ! " 

Here  the  servant  interrupted  Lord  Vargrave's  meditation  by 
bringing  in  the  letters  and  the  newspapers  which  had  just  been 
forwarded  from  his  town  house.  Lord  Vargrave  had  spoken  in 
the  Lords  on  the  previous  Friday,  and  he  wished  to  see  what 
the  Sunday  newspapers  said  of  his  speech.  So  he  took  up  one 
of  the  leading  papers  before  he  opened  the  letters.  His  eyes 
rested  upon  two  paragraphs  in  close  neighborhood  with  each 
other  :  the  first  ran  thus  : 

"The  celebrated  Mr.  Maltravers  has  resigned  his  seat  for  the 

of ,  and  left  town  yesterday  on  an  extended  tour  on  the 

Continent.  Speculation  is  busy  on  the  causes  of  the  singular 
and  unexpected  self-exile  of  a  gentleman  so  distinguished — in 
the  very  zenith  of  his  career." 

**  So,  he  has  given  up  the  game  ! "  muttered  Lord  Vargrave ; 
"he  was  never  a  practical  man — I  am  glad  he  is  out  of  the  way. 
But  what's  this  about  myself?" 

"We  hear  that  important  changes  are  to  take  place  in  the  gov- 
ernment— it  is  said  that  ministers  are  at  last  alive  to  the  neces- 
sity of  strengthening  themselves  with  new  talent.  Among  other 
appointments  confidently  spoken  of  in  the  best-informed  circles, 

we  learn  that  Lord  Vargrave  is  to  have  the  place  of .    It  will 

be  a  popular  appointment.  Lord  Vargrave  is  not  a  holiday  ora- 
tor, a  mere  declamatory  rhetorician — but  a  man  of  clear,  busi- 
ness-like views,  and  was  highly  thought  of  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  He  has  also  the  art  of  attaching  his  friends,  and  his 
frank,  manly  character  cannot  fail  to  have  its  due  effect  with 
the  English  public.  In  another  column  of  our  journal  our  read- 
ers will  see  a  full  report  of  his  excellent  maiden  speech  in  the 
House  of  Lords  on  Friday  last :  the  sentiments  there  expressed 
do  the  highest  honor  to  his  lordship's  patriotism  and  sagacity." 


EkNEST    MALTRAVKRS.  ^^^ 

"Very  well,  very  well  indeed!"  said  Lumley,  rubbing  his 
hands ;  and,  turning  to  his  letters,  his  attention  was  drawn  to 
one  with  an  enormous  seal, marked  "Private  and  confidential." 
He  knew  before  he  opened  it  that  it  contained  the  offer  of  the 
appointment  alluded  to  in  the  newspaper.  He  read,  and  rose 
exultantly ;  passing  through  the  French  windows,  he  joined 
Lady  Vargrave  and  Evelyn  on  the  lawn,  and  as  he  smiled  on 
the  mother  and  caressed  the  child,  the  scene  and  the  group 
made  a  pleasant  picture  of  English  domestic  happiness. 

Here  ends  the  First  Portion  of  this  work  :  it  ends  in  the  view 
that  bounds  us  when  we  Jook  on  the  practical  world  with  the 
outward  unspiritual  eye — and  see  life  that  dissatisfies  justice, — 
for  life  is  so  seen  but  in  fragments.  The  influence  of  fate  seems  so 
small  on  the  man  who,  in  erring,  but  errs  as  the  egoist,  and 
shapes  out  of  ill  some  use  that  can  profit  himself.  But  Fate 
hangs  a  shadow  so  vast  on  the  heart  that  errs  but  in  venturing 
abroad,  and  knows  only  in  others  the  sources  of  sorrow  and  joy. 

Go  alone,  O  Maltravers,  unfriended,  remote — thy  present  a 
waste,  and  thy  past  life  a  ruin,  go  forth  to  the  Future ! — Go, 
Ferrers,  light  cynic — with  the  crowd  take  thy  way, — complacent, 
elated, — no  cloud  upon  conscience,  for  thou  seest  but  sunshine 
on  fortune. — Go  forth  to  the  Future ! 

Human  life  is  compared  to  the  circle — Is  the  simile  just?  All 
lines  that  are  drawn  from  the  centre  to  touch  the  circumference, 
by  the  law  of  the  circle,  are  equal.  But  the  lines  that  are  drawn 
from  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the  verge  of  his  destiny — do  they 
equal  each  other  ? — Alas  !  some  seem  so  brief,  and  some  lengthen 
on  as  for  ever. 


THE   END. 


ALICE 

OR 

THE    MYSTERIES 


NOTE. 


Although  it  has  been  judged  desirable  to  designate  this 
Second  Part  of  "  Ernest  Maltravers  "  by  its  original  title  of 
"  Alice,"  yet,  as  it  has  been  elsewhere  stated,  the  two  Parts  are 
united  by  the  same  plot,  and  form  but  one  entire  whole.  The 
more  ingenious  and  attentive  will  perhaps  perceive  that  under 
the  outward  story,  which  knits  together  the  destinies  of  Alice 
and  Maltravers,  there  is  an  interior  philosophical  design  which 
explains  the  author's  application  of  the  word  "  Eleusinia,"  or 
"Mysteries,"  appended  to  the  title.  Thus  regarded,  Ernest 
Maltravers  will  appear  to  the  reader  as  the  type  of  Genius,  or 
Intellectual  Ambition,  which,  at  the  onset  of  its  career,  devotes 
itself  with  extravagance  and  often  erring  passion  to  Nature 
alone  (typified  by  Alice).  Maltravers  is  separated  by  action 
and  the  current  of  worldly  life,  from  the  simple  and  earlier  form 
of  Nature, — new  objects  successively  attract,  and  for  a  short 
time  absorb  his  devotion,  but  he  has  a  secret  yearning  to  the 
first  idol,  and  a  repentant  regret  for  his  loss.  Completing, 
however,  his  mental  education  in  the  actual  world,  and,  though 
often  led  astray  from  the  path,  still  earnestly  fixing  his  eye 
upon  the  goal, — he  is  ultimately  reunited  to  the  one  who  had 
first  smiled  upon  his  youth,  and  ever  (yet  unconsciously)  in- 
fluenced his  after-manhood.  But  this  attachment  is  no  longer 
erring,  and  the  object  of  it  has  attained  to  a  purer  and  higher 
state  of  being, — that  is.  Genius,  if  duly  following  its  vocation, 
reunites  itself  to  the  Nature  from  which  life  and  art  had  for 
a  while  distracted  it  ;  but  to  Nature  in  a  higher  and  more 
spiritual  form  than  that  under  which  youth  beholds  it, — Nature 
elevated  and  idealized. 

In  tracing  the  progress  and  denouement  of  this  conception 
the  reader  will  be  better  enabled  to  judge  both  of  the  ethical 
intention  of  the  author,  and  of  the  degree  of  success  with  which, 
as  an  artist,  he  has  connected  the  inward  story  with  the  outer, 
and,  while  faithful  to  his  main  typical  purpose,  left  to  the  char- 
acters that  illustrate  it  the  attributes  of  reality — the  freedom 
and  movement  of  living  beings.     So  far  as  an  author  may  pre- 


4  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

sume  to  judge  of  his  own  writings — no  narrative  fiction  by  the 
same  hand  (with  the  exception  of  the  poem  of  "  King  Arthur"), 
deserves  to  be  classed  before  this  work  in  such  merit  as  maybe 
thought  to  belong  to  harmony  between  a  premeditated  concep- 
tion and  the  various  incidents  and  agencies  employed  in  the 
development  of  plot. 
Knebworth,  Dec.  14,  1851. 


ALICE;  OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 


BOOK  I. 

28  fdv  tvai?.iotg  imb  SevdpoKOfwt^ 
^        ^        ^        ava^odau. — EURIP.  Hel.  I.  II 16. 

Thee,  hid  the  bowering  vales  amidst,  I  call. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"Who  art  thou,  fair  one,  who  usurp'st  the  place 

Of  Blanch,  the  lady  of  the  matchless  grace  ?  " — Lamb. 

It  was  towards  evening  of  a  day  in  early  April,  that  two 
ladies  were  seated  by  the  open  windows  of  a  cottage  in  Devon- 
shire. The  lawn  before  them  was  gay  with  evergreens,  relieved 
by  the  first  few  flowers  and  fresh  turf  of  the  reviving  spring ; 
and  at  a  distance,  through  an  opening  amongst  the  trees,  the 
sea,  blue  and  tranquil,  bounded  the  view,  and  contrasted  the 
more  confined  and  home-like  feature  of  the  scene.  It  was  a 
spot  remote,  sequestered,  shut  out  from  the  business  and  pleas- 
ures of  the  world  ;  as  such  it  suited  the  tastes  and  character  of 
the  owner. 

That  owner  was  the  younger  of  the  ladies  seated  by  the 
window.  You  would  scarcely  have  guessed,  from  her  appear- 
ance, that  she  was  more  than  seven  or  eight-and-twenty,  though 
she  exceeded  by  four  or  five  years  that  critical  boundary  in  the 
life  of  beauty.  Her  form  was  slight  and  delicate  in  its  propor- 
tions, nor  was  her  countenance  the  less  lovely,  because,  from 
its  gentleness  and  repose  (not  unmixed  with  a  certain  sadness), 
the  coarse  and  the  gay  might  have  thought  it  wanting  in  ex- 
pression. For  there  is  a  stillness  in  the  aspect  of  those  who 
have  felt  deeply,  which  deceives  the  common  eye — as  rivers  are 
often  alike  tranquil  and  profound,  in  proportion  as  they  are  re- 
mote from  the  springs  which  agitated  and  swelled  the  com- 
mencement of  their  course,  and  by  which  their  waters  are  still, 
though  invisibly,  supplied. 

The  elder  lady,  the  guest  of  her  companion,  was  past  seventy; 


6  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

her  gray  hair  was  drawn  back  from  the  forehead,  and  gathered 
under  a  stiff  cap  of  quaker-like  simplicity  ;  while  her  dress, 
rich  but  plain,  and  of  no  very  modern  fashion,  served  to  in- 
crease the  venerable  appearance  of  one  who  seemed  not  ashamed 
of  years. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Leslie,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause  in  the  conversation  that  had  been  carried  on 
for  the  last  hour  ;  "  it  is  very  true  ;  perhaps  I  was  to  blame  in 
coming  to  this  place  ;  I  ought  not  to  have  been  so  selfish." 

"No,  my  dear  friend,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie  gently  ;  "  selfish 
is  a  word  that  can  never  be  applied  to  you  ;  you  acted  as  be- 
came you — agreeably  to  your  own  instinctive  sense  of  what  is 
best,  when  at  your  age — independent  in  fortune  and  rank,  and 
still  so  lovely — you  resigned  all  that  would  have  attracted 
others,  and  devoted  yourself,  in  retirement,  to  a  life  of  quiet 
and  unknown  benevolence.  You  are  in  your  sphere  in  this 
village — humble  though  it  be — consoling,  relieving,  healing  the 
wretched,  the  destitute,  the  infirm  ;  and  teaching  your  Evelyn 
insensibly  to  imitate  your  modest  and  Christian  virtues."  The 
good  old  lady  spoke  warmly,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  her 
companion  placed  her  hand  in  Mrs.  Leslie's. 

"  You  cannot  make  me  vain,"  said  she,  with  a  sweet  and 
melancholy  smile.  "  I  remember  what  I  was  when  you  first 
gave  shelter  to  the  poor,  desolate  wanderer  and  her  fatherless 
child  ;  and  I,  who  was  then  so  poor  and  destitute,  what  should 
I  be,  if  I  was  deaf  to  the  poverty  and  sorrows  of  others — others, 
too,  who  are  better  than  I  am  ?  But  now  Evelyn,  as  you  say, 
is  growing  up  ;  the  time  approaches  when  she  must  decide  on 
accepting  or  rejecting  Lord  Vargrave ; — and  yet  in  this  village 
how  can  she  compare  him  with  others? — how  can  she  form  a 
choice?  What  you  say  is  very  true;  and  yet  I  did  not  think 
of  it  sufficiently.  What  shall  I  do?  I  am  only  anxious,  dear 
girl,  to  act  so  as  may  be  best  for  her  own  happiness." 

"  Of  that  I  am  sure,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie  ;  "  and  yet  I  know 
not  how  to  advise.  On  one  hand,  so  much  is  due  to  the  wishes 
of  your  late  husband,  in  every  point  of  view,  that  if  Lord  Var- 
grave be  worthy  of  Evelyn's  esteem  and  affection,  it  would  be 
most  desirable  that  she  should  prefer  him  to  all  others.  But  if 
he  be  what  I  hear  he  is  considered  in  the  world, — an  artful, 
scheming,  almost  heartless  man,  of  ambitious  and  hard  pur- 
suits,— I  tremble  to  think  how  completely  the  happiness  of 
Evelyn's  whole  life  may  be  thrown  away.  She  certainly  is  not 
in  love  with  him,  and  yet  I  fear  she  is  one  whose  nature  is  but 
too  susceptible  of  affection.     She  ought  now  to  see  others, — to 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  7 

know  her  own  mind,  and  not  to  be  hurried,  blindfold  and  inex- 
perienced, into  a  step  that  decides  existence.  This  is  a  duty 
we  owe  to  her — nay,  even  to  the  late  Lord  Vargrave,  anxious 
as  he  was  for  the  marriage.  His  aim  was  surely  her  happiness, 
and  he  would  not  have  insisted  upon  means  that  time  and  cir- 
cumstances might  show  to  be  contrary  to  the  end  he  had  in 
view." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Lady  Vargrave;  "when  my  poor 
husband  lay  on  his  bed  of  death,  just  before  he  summoned  his 
nephew  to  receive  his  last  blessing,  he  said  to  me,  *  Providence 
can  counteract  all  our  schemes.  If  ever  it  should  be  for 
Evelyn's  real  happiness  that  my  wish  for  her  marriage  with 
Lumley  Ferrers  should  not  be  fulfilled,  to  you  I  must  leave  the 
right  to  decide  on  what  I  cannot  foresee.  All  I  ask  is,  that  no 
obstacle  shall  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  my  wish  ;  and  that  the 
child  shall  be  trained  up  to  consider  Lumley  as  her  future  hus- 
band.' Among  his  papers  was  a  letter  addressed  to  me  to  the 
same  effect ;  and,  indeed,  in  other  respects,  that  letter  left 
more  to  my  judgment  than  I  had  any  right  to  expect.  Oh,  I 
am  often  unhappy  to  think  that  he  did  not  marry  one  who 
would  have  deserved  his  affection  !  and — but  regret  is  useless 
now  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  could  really  feel  so,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie  ;  "  for  re- 
gret of  another  kind  still  seems  to  haunt  you  ;  and  I  do  not 
think  you  have  yet  forgotten  your  early  sorrows." 

"  Ah  !  how  can  I  ?  "  said  Lady  Vargrave,  with  a  quivering  lip. 

At  that  instant,  a  light  shadow  darkened  the  sunny  lawn  in 
front  of  the  casements,  and  a  sweet,  gay,  young  voice  was  heard 
singing  at  a  little  distance  ; — a  moment  more,  and  a  beautiful 
girl,  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  bounded  lightly  along  the  grass, 
and  halted  opposite  the  friends. 

It  was  a  remarkable  contrast — the  repose  and  quiet  of  the  two 
persons  we  have  described — the  age  and  gray  hairs  of  one — tlie 
resigned  and  melancholy  gentleness  written  on  the  features  of 
the  other — with  the  springing  step,  and  laughing  eyes,  and  radiant 
bloom  of  the  new-comer!  As  she  stood  with  the  setting  sun 
glowing  full  upon  her  rich  fair  hair,  her  happy  countenance  and 
elastic  form — it  was  a  vision  almost  too  bright  for  this  weary 
earth — a  thing  of  light  and  bliss — that  the  joyous  Greek  might 
have  placed  among  the  forms  of  Heaven,  and  worshipped  as  an 
Aurora  or  a  Hebe. 

"Oh!  how  can  you  stay  in-doors  this  beautiful  evening? 
Come,  dearest  Mrs.  Leslie ;  come,  mother,  dear  mother,  you 
know  you  promised  you  would — you  said  I  w?i§  to  call  you-^ 


8  ALICE  ;     OK,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

see,  it  will  rain  no  more,  and  the  shower  has  left  the  myrtles 
and  the  violet-bank  so  fresh." 

*'M  y  dear  Evelyn,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am 
not  so  young  as  you." 

"  No  ;  but  you  are  just  as  gay  when  you  are  in  good  spirits- — 
and  who  can  be  out  of  spirits  in  such  weather?  Let  me  call  for 
your  chair  ;  let  me  wlieel  you — I  am  sure  lean. — Down,  Sultan  ; 
so  you  have  found  me  out,  have  you,  sir  ?    Be  quiet,  sir — down  !  " 

This  last  exhortation  was  addressed  to  a  splendid  dog  of  the 
Newfoundland  breed,  who  now  contrived  wholly  to  occupy 
Evelyn's  attention. 

The  two  friends  looked  at  this  beautiful  girl,  as  with  all  the 
grace  of  youth  she  shared  while  she  rebuked  the  exuberant 
hilarity  of  her  huge  playmate  ;  and  the  elder  of  the  two  seemed 
the  most  to  sympathize  with  her  mirth.  Both  gazed  with  fond 
affection  upon  an  object  dear  to  both.  But  some  memory  or  asso- 
ciation touched  Lady  Vargrave,  and  she  sighed  as  she  gazed. 


CHAPTER  IL 
"Is stormy  life  preferred  to  this  serene?" — Young's  Satires. 

And  the  windows  were  closed  in,  and  night  had  succeeded  to 
evening,  and  the  little  party  at  the  cottage  were  grouped  together. 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  quietly  seated  at  her  tambour-frame  ;  Lady 
Vargrave,  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  seemed  absorbed  in  a 
volume  before  her,  but  her  eyes  were  not  on  the  page  ;  Evelyn 
was  busily  employed  in  turning  over  the  contents  of  a  parcel  of 
books  and  music,  which  had  just  been  brought  from  the  lodge, 
where  the  London  coach  had  deposited  it. 

"Oh,  dear  mamma  !  "  cried  Evelyn,  "I  am  so  glad  ;  there  is 
something  you  will  like — some  of  the  poetry  that  touched  you 
so  much,  set  to  music." 

Evelyn  brought  the  songs  to  her  mother,  who  roused  herself 
from  her  revery,  and  looked  at  them  with  interest. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  she,  "that  I  should  be  so  affected 
by  all  that  is  written  by  this  person  :  I,  too,"  (she  added,  tenderly 
stroking  down  Evelyn's  luxuriant  tresses)  "who  am  not  so  fond 
of  reading  as  you  are  !  " 

"You are  reading  one  of  his  books  now,"  said  Evelyn,  glanc- 
ingoverthe  open  page  on  the  table.  "Ah,  that  beautiful  passage 
upon  '  Our  First  Impressions.'  Yet  I  do  not  like  you,  dear 
mother,  to  read  his  books ;  they  always  seem  to  make  yon  sad," 


ALICE  ;     OR,   THE    MYSTERIES.  9 

"There  is  a  charm  to  me  in  their  thoughts,  their  manner  of 
expression,"  said  I>ady  Vargrave,  "which  sets  me  thinking, 
which  reminds  me  of — of  an  early  friend,  whom  I  could  fancy  I 
hear  talking  while  I  read.  It  was  so  from  the  first  time  I  opened 
by  accident  a  book  of  his,  years  ago." 

"  Who  is  this  author  that  pleases  you  so  much  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Leslie,  with  some  surprise,  for  Lady  Vargrave  had  usually  little 
pleasure  in  reading  even  the  greatest  and  most  popular  master- 
l)ieces  of  modern  genius. 

"Maltravers,"  answered  Evelyn  ;  "and  I  think  I  almost  share 
my  mother's  enthusiasm." 

"  Maltravers  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Leslie.  "He  is,  perhaps,  a 
dangerous  writer  for  one  so  young.  At  your  age,  dear  girl,  you 
have  naturally  romance  and  feeling  enough  of  your  own,  without 
seeking  them  in  books." 

"But,  dear  madam,"  said  Evelyn,  standing  up  for  her  favorite, 
"his  writings  do  not  consist  of  romance  and  feeling  only  ;  they 
are  not  exaggerated,  they  are  so  simple — so  truthful." 

"Did  you  ever  meet  him?"  asked  Lady  Vargrave. 

"Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie,  "once,  when  he  was  a  gay,  fair- 
haired  boy.  His  father  resided  in  the  next  county,  and  we  met 
at  a  country-house.     Mr.  Maltravers  himself  has  an  estate  near 

my  daughter  in  B shire,  but  he  does  not  live  on  it ;  he  has 

been  some  years  abroad — a  strange  character ! " 

"Why  does  he  write  no  more?"  said  Evelyn  ;  "I  have  read 
his  works  so  often,  and  know  his  poetry  so  well  by  heart,  that  I 
should  look  forward  to  something  new  from  him  as  an  event." 

"  I  have  heard,  my  dear,  that  he  has  withdrawn  much  from 
the  world  and  its  objects — that  he  has  lived  greatly  in  the  East. 
The  death  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  to  have  been  married  is 
said  to  have  unsettled  and  changed  his  character.  Since  that 
event  he  has  not  returned  to  England.  Lord  Vargrave  can  tell 
you  more  of  him  than  I." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  thinks  of  nothing  that  is  not  always  before 
the  world,"  said  Evelyn. 

"I  am  sure  you  wrong  him,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  looking  up, 
and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Evelyn's  countenance  ;  "(ovyou  are  not 
before  the  world." 

Evelyn  slightly — very  slightly — pouted  her  pretty  lip,  but 
made  no  answer.  She  took  up  the  music,  and,  seating  herself 
at  the  piano,  practised  the  airs.  Lady  Vargrave  listened  with 
emotion  ;  and  as  Evelyn,  in  a  voice  exquisitely  sweet,  though 
not  powerful,  sang  the  words,  her  mother  turned  away  her  face, 
and,  half  unconsciously,  a  few  tears  stole  silently  down  her  cheek. 


lO  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

When  Evelyn  ceased — herself  affected,  for  the  lines  were  im- 
pressed with  a  wild  and  melancholy  depth  of  feeling — she  came 
again  to  her  mother's  side,  and,  seeing  her  emotion,  kissed  away 
the  tears  from  the  pensive  eyes.  Her  own  gayety  left  her — she 
drew  a  stool  to  her  mother's  feet,  and,  nestling  to  her,  and  clasp- 
ing her  hand,  did  not  leave  that  place  till  they  retired  to  rest. 

And  the  lady  blessed  Evelyn,  and  felt  that,  if  bereaved,  she 
was  not  alone  ! 


CHAPTER  HI. 

"  But  come,  thou  Goddess,  far  and  free. 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne  ! 
***** 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night." — L Allegro. 

"But  come,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy. 
Come,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 

***** 
There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble." — II  Penseroso, 

The  early  morning  of  early  Spring — what  associations  of 
freshness  and  hope  in  that  single  sentence  !  And  there — a  little 
after  sunrise — there  was  Evelyn,  fresh  and  hopeful  as  the  morn- 
ing itself,  bounding  with  the  light  step  of  a  light  heart  over  the 
lawn.  Alone — alone!  no  governess,  with  a  pinched  nose  and  a 
sharp  voice,  to  curb  her  graceful  movements,  and  tell  her  how 
young  ladies  ought  to  walk.  How  silently  Morning  stole  over 
the  Earth  !  It  was  as  if  Youth  had  the  day  and  the  world  to 
itself.  The  shutters  of  the  cottage  were  still  closed,  and  Eve- 
lyn cast  a  glance  upward,  to  assure  herself  that  her  mother,  who 
also  rose  betimes,  was  not  yet  stirring.  So  she  tripped  along, 
singing  from  very  glee,  to  secure  a  companion,  and  let  out  Sul- 
tan ;  and,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  they  were  scouring  over 
the  grass,  and  descending  the  rude  steps  that  wound  down  the 
^liff  to  the  smooth  sea-sands.  Evelyn  was  still  a  child  at  heart, 
fet  somewhat  more  than  a  child  in  mind.     In  the  majesty  of 

"  That  hollow,  sounding,  and  mysterious  main" — 
in  the  silence  broken  but  by  murmur  of  the  billows — in  the 
solitude  relieved  but  by  the  boats  of  the  early  fishermen — she 
felt  those  deep  and  tranquillizing  influences  which  belong  to  the 
Religion  of  Nature.  Unconsciously  to  herself,  her  sweet  face 
grew  more  thoughtful,  and  her  step  more  sl9w.     Wha^  ^  CQHl' 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  II 

plex  thing  is  education  !  How  many  circumstances,  that  have 
no  connection  with  books  and  tutors,  contribute  to  the  rearing 
of  the  human  mind  ! — the  earth,  the  sky,  and  the  ocean,  were 
among  the  teachers  of  Evelyn  Cameron  ;  and  beneath  her  sim- 
pUcity  of  thought  was  daily  filled,  from  the  urns  of  invisible 
spirits,  the  fountain  of  the  poetry  of  feeling. 

This  was  the  hour  when  Evelyn  most  sensibly  felt  how  little 
our  real  life  is  chronicled  by  external  events — how  much  we 
live  a  second  and  a  higher  life  in  our  meditations  and  dreams. 
Brought  up,  not  more  by  precept  than  example,  in  the  faith 
which  unites  creature  and  Creator,  this  was  the  hour  in  which 
thought  itself  had  something  of  the  holiness  of  prayer;  and  if 
(turning  from  dreams  divine  to  earthlier  visions)  this  also  was 
the  hour  in  which  the  heart  painted  and  peopled  its  own  fairy 
land  below — of  the  two  ideal  worlds  that  stretch  beyond  the 
inch  of  time  on  which  we  stand.  Imagination  is  perhaps  holier 
than  Memory. 

So  now,  as  the  day  crept  on,  Evelyn  returned  in  a  more  sober 
mood,  and  then  she  joined  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Leslie  at  break- 
fast ;  and  then  the  household  cares — such  as  they  were — de- 
volved upon  her,  heiress  though  she  was  ;  and,  that  duty  done, 
once  more  the  straw  hat  and  Sultan  were  in  requisition  ;  and, 
opening  a  little  gate  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  she  took  the 
path  along  the  village  churchyard  that  led  to  the  house  of  the 
old  curate.  The  burial-ground  itself  was  surrounded  and  shut 
in  with  a  belt  of  trees.  Save  the  small,  time-discolored  church, 
and  the  roofs  of  the  cottage  and  the  minister's  house,  no  build- 
ing— not  even  a  cotter's  hut — was  visible  there.  Beneath  a  dark 
and  single  yew-tree,  in  the  centre  of  the  ground,  was  placed  a 
rude  seat  ;  opposite  to  this  seat  was  a  grave,  distinguished  from 
the  rest  by  a  sUght  palisade.  As  the  young  Evelyn  passed  slowly 
by  this  spot,  a  glove  on  the  long,  damp  grass  beside  the  yew-tree 
caught  her  eye.  She  took  it  up  and  sighed — it  was  her  mother's. 
She  sighed — for  she  thought  of  the  soft  melancholy  on  that 
mother's  face  which  her  caresses  and  her  mirth  never  could 
wholly  chase  away.  She  wondered  why  that  melancholy  was 
so  fixed  a  habit — for  the  young  ever  wonder  why  the  expe- 
rienced should  be  sad. 

And  now  Evelyn  had  passed  the  churchyard,  and  was  on  the 
green  turf  before  the  minister's  quaint,  old-fashioned  house. 

The  old  man  himself  was  at  work  in  his  garden;  but  he  threw 
down  his  hoe  as  he  saw  Evelyn,  and  came  cheerfully  up  to 
greet  her. 

It  was  easy  to  see  how  dear  she  was  to  him. 


12  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MVStERIES. 

"  So  you  are  come  for  your  daily  lesson,  my  young  pupil  ?  " 

*'  Yes  ;  but  Tasso  can  wait  if  the — " 

"If  the  tutor  wants  to  play  truant;  no,  my  child — and,  in- 
deed, the  lesson  must  be  longer  than  usual  to-day,  for  I  fear  I 
shall  have  to  leave  you  to-morrow  for  some  days." 

"  Leave  us  !  why  ? — leave  Brook- Green — impossible  ! " 

"  Not  at  all  impossible;  for  we  have  now  a  new  vicar,  and  I  must 
turn  courtier  in  my  old  age,  and  ask  him  to  leave  me  with  my 
flock.  He  is  at  Weymouth,  and  has  written  to  me  to  visit  him 
there.  So,  Miss  Evelyn,  I  must  give  you  a  holiday  task  to  learn 
while  I  am  away." 

Evelyn  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes — for  when  the  heart 
is  full  of  affection,  the  eyes  easily  run  over — and  clung  mourn- 
fully to  the  old  man,  as  she  gave  utterance  to  all  her  half-child- 
ish, half-womanly  grief  at  the  thought  of  parting  so  soon  with 
him.  And  what,  too,  could  her  mother  do  without  him  ;  and 
why  could  he  not  write  to  the  vicar,  instead  of  going  to  him  ?    . 

The  curate,  who  was  childless  and  a  bachelor,  was  not  insen- 
sible to  the  fondness  of  this  beautiful  pupil,  and  perhaps  he 
himself  was  a  little  more  distrait  than  usual  that  morning,  or 
else  Evelyn  was  peculiarly  inattentive;  for  certain  it  is  that  she 
reajjed  very  little  benefit  from  the  lesson. 

Yet  he  was  an  admirable  teacher,  that  old  man  !  Aware  of 
Evelyn's  quick,  susceptible,  and  rather  fanciful  character  of 
mind,  he  had  sought  less  to  curb,  than  to  refine  and  elevate  her 
imagination.  Himself  of  no  ordinary  abilities,  which  leisure 
had  allowed  him  to  cultivate,  his  piety  was  too  large  and  cheer- 
ful to  exclude  literature — Heaven's  best  gift — from  the  pale  of 
religion.  And  under  his  care  Evelyn's  mind  had  been  duly 
stored  with  the  treasures  of  modern  genius,  and  her  judgment 
strengthened  by  the  criticisms  of  a  graceful  and  generous  taste. 

In  that  sequestered  hamlet,  the  young  heiress  had  been  trained 
to  adorn  her  future  station  ;  to  appreciate  the  arts  and  elegan- 
cies that  distinguish  (no  matter  what  the  rank)  the  refined  from 
the  low,  better  than  if  she  had  been  brought  up  under  the  hun- 
dred-handed Briareus  of  fashionable  education.  Lady  Vargrave, 
indeed,  like  most  persons  of  modest  pretensions  and  imperfect 
cultivation,  was  rather  inclined  to  overrate  the  advantages  to  be 
derived  from  book-knowledge,  and  she  was  never  better  pleased 
than  when  she  saw  Evelynopeningthemonthly  parcel  from  Lon- 
don, and  delightedly  poring  over  volumes  which  Lady  Vargrave 
innocently  believed  to  be  reservoirs  of  inexhaustible  wisdom. 

But  this  day  Evelyn  would  not  read,  and  the  golden  verses 
of  Tasso  lost  their  music  to  her  ear.    So  the  curate  gave  up  the 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  13 

lecture,  and  placed  a  little  programme  of  studies  to  be  conned 
during  his  absence,  in  her  reluctant  hand;  and  Sultan,  who  had 
been  wistfully  licking  his  paws  for  the  last  half-hour,  sprung  up 
and  caracoled  once  more  into  the  garden — and  the  old  priest 
and  the  young  woman  left  the  works  of  man  for  those  of  Nature. 

"  Do  not  fear  ;  I  will  take  such  care  of  your  garden  while  you 
are  away,"  said  Evelyn  ;  "and  you  must  write  and  let  me  know 
what  day  you  are  to  come  back." 

"  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  are  born  to  spoil  every  one — from 
Sultan  to  Aubrey." 

"  And  to  be  spoiled  too,  don't  forget  that,"  cried  Evelyn, 
laughingly  shaking  back  her  ringlets.  "  And  now,  before  you 
go,  will  you  tell  me,  as  you  are  so  wise,  what  I  can  do  to  make 
— to  make — my  mother  love  me  ?" 

Evelyn's  voice  faltered  as  she  spoke  the  last  words,  and  Au- 
brey looked  surprised  and  moved. 

"  Your  xnother  love  you,  my  dear  Evelyn  !  What  do  you 
mean — does  she  not  love  you  ? " 

"Ah,  not  as  I  love  her  ; — she  is  kind  and  gentle,  I  know,  for 
she  is  so  to  all ;  but  she  does  not  confide  in  me — she  does  not 
trust  me  ;  she  has  some  sorrow  at  heart  which  I  am  never  al- 
lowed to  learn  and  soothe.  Why  does  she  avoid  all  mention  of 
her  early  days  ?  she  never  talks  to  me  as  if  she  too,  had  once  a 
mother.  Why  am  I  never  to  speak  of  her  first  marriage — of 
my  father?  Why  does  she  look  reproachfully  at  me,  and  shun 
me — yes,  shun  me,  for  days  together — if — if  I  attempt  to  draw 
her  to  the  past?  Is  there  a  secret? — if  so,  am  I  not  old  enough 
to  know  it  ?" 

Evelyn  spoke  quickly  and  nervously,  and  with  quivering  lips. 
Aubrey  took  her  hand,  and  pressing  it,  said,  after  a  little  pause  : 

"  Evelyn,  this  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  thus  spoken  to 
me.  Has  anything  chanced  to  arouse  your — shall  I  call  it  curi- 
osity, or  shall  I  call  it  the  mortified  pride  of  affection  ?" 

"  And  you,  too,  are  harsh  ;  you  blame  me !  No,  it  is  true 
that  I  have  not  thus  spoken  to  you  before  ;  but  I  have  long, 
long  thought  with  grief  that  I  was  insufficient  to  my  mother's 
happiness — I  who  love  her  so  dearly.  And  now,  since  Mrs. 
Leslie  has  been  here,  I  find  her  conversing  with  this  compara- 
tive stranger,  so  much  more  confidentially  than  with  me  ; — when 
I  come  in  unexpectedly,  they  cease  their  conference,  as  if  I  were 
not  worthy  to  share  it ;  and — and  oh,  if  I  could  but  make  you 
understand  that  all  I  desire  is,  that  my  mother  should  love  me, 
and  know  me,  and  trust  me." 

"  Evelyn,"  said  the  curate,  coldly,  "you  love  your  mother, 


14  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 

and  justly  ;  a  kinder  and  a  gentler  heart  than  hers  does  not 
beat  in  a  human  breast.  Her  first  wish  in  life  is  for  your  hap- 
piness and  welfare.  You  ask  for  confidence,  but  why  not  con- 
fide in  her  ;  why  not  believe  her  actuated  by  tlie  best  and  the 
tenderest  motives  ;  why  not  leave  it  to  her  discretion  to  reveal 
to  you  any  secret  grief,  if  such  there  be,  that  preys  upon  her; 
why  add  to  that  grief  by  any  selfish  indulgence  of  over-suscep- 
tibility in  yourself?  My  dear  pupil,  you  are  yet  almost  a  child  ; 
and  they  who  have  sorrowed  may  well  be  reluctant  to  sadden 
with  a  melancholy  confidence  those  to  whom  sorrow  is  yet  un- 
known. This  much,  at  least,  I  may  tell  you — for  this  much  she 
does  not  seek  to  conceal — that  Lady  Vargravewas  early  inured 
to  trials  from  which  you,  more  happy,  have  been  saved.  She 
speaks  not  to  you  of  her  relations,  for  she  has  none  left  on  earth. 
And  after  her  marriage  with  your  benefactor,  Evelyn,  perhaps 
it  seemed  to  her  a  matter  of  principle  to  banish  all  vain  regret, 
all  remembrance,  if  possible,  of  an  earlier  tie." 

"  My  poor,  poor  mother  !  Oh,  yes,  you  are  right ;  forgive 
me.  She  yet  mourns,  perhaps,  my  father,  whom  I  never  saw, 
whom  I  feel,  as  it  were,  tacitly  forbid  to  name, — you  did  not 
know  him? " 

"Him!— whom?" 

"My  father,  my  mother's  first  husband  ?" 

"  No." 

"  But  I  am  sure  I  could  not  have  loved  him  as  well  as 
my  benefactor,  my  real  and  second  father,  who  is  now  dead 
and  gone.  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  him — how  fondly  ! " 
Here  Evelyn  stopped  and  burst  into  tears. 

"You  do  right  to  remember  him  thus;  to  love  and  revere 
his  memory — a  father  indeed  he  was  to  you.  But  now,  Evelyn, 
my  own  dear  child,  hear  me.  Respect  the  silent  heart  of  your 
mother  ;  let  her  not  think  that  her  misfortunes,  whatever  they 
may  be,  can  cast  a  shadow  over  you — you,  her  last  hope  and 
blessing.  Rather  than  seek  to  open  the  old  wounds,  suffer 
them  to  heal,  as  they  must,  beneath  the  influences  of  religion 
and  time  ;  and  wait  the  hour  when  without,  perhaps,  too  keen 
a  grief,  your  mother  can  go  back  with  you  into  the  past." 

"I  will, — I  will.  Oh,  how  wicked, — how  ungracious  I  have 
been  !  it  was  but  an  excess  of  love,  believe  it,  dear  Mr.  Aubrey, 
believe  it." 

"I  do  believe  it,  my  poor  Evelyn  ;  and  now  I  know  that  I 
may  trust  in  you.  Come,  dry  those  bright  eyes,  or  they  will 
think  I  have  been  a  hard  task-master,  and  let  us  go  to  the 
cottage." 


ALICE  ;     OR,   THE    MYSTERIES.  I^ 

They  walked  slowly  and  silently  across  the  humble  garden 
into  the  churchyard,  and  there,  by  the  old  yew-tree,  they  saw 
Lady  Vargrave.  Evelyn,  fearful  that  the  traces  of  her  tears 
were  yet  visible,  drew  back  ;  and  Aubrey,  awareof  what  passed 
within  her,  said  : 

"  Shall  I  join  your  mother,  and  tell  her  of  ray  approaching 
departure?  and  perhaps,  in  the  nean while,  you  will  call  at  our 
poor  pensioner's  in  the  village — Dame  Newman  is  so  anxious  to 
see  you — we  will  join  you  there  soon.  " 

Evelyn  smiled  her  thanks,  and  kissing  her  hand  to  her 
mother  with  seeming  gayety,  turned  back  and  passed  through  the 
glebe  into  the  little  village.  Aubrey  joined  Lady  Vargrave,  and 
drew  her  arm  in  his. 

Meanwhile  Evelyn  thoughtfully  pursued  her  way.  Her 
heart  was  full,  and  of  self-reproach.  Her  mother  had,  then, 
known  cause  for  sorrow,  and,  perhaps,  her  reserve  was  but 
occasioned  by  her  reluctance  to  pain  her  child.  Oh,  how  doubly 
anxious  would  Evelyn  be  hereafter  to  soothe,  to  comfort,  to 
wean  that  dear  mother  from  the  past !  Though  in  this  girl's 
character  there  was  something  of  the  impetuosity  and  thought- 
lessness of  her  years,  it  was  noble  as  well  as  soft  ;  and  now  the 
woman's  trustfulness  conquered  all  the  woman's  curiosity. 

She  entered  the  cottage  of  the  old  bedridden  crone  whom 
Aubrey  had  referred  to.  It  was  as  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  that 
sweet  comforting  face  ;  and  here,  seated  by  the  old  woman's 
side,  with  the  Book  of  the  Poor  upon  her  lap,  Evelyn  was  found 
by  Lady  Vargrave.  It  was  curious  to  observe  the  different 
impressions  upon  the  cottagers  made  by  the  mother  and 
daughter.  Both  were  beloved  with  almost  equal  enthusiasm  ; 
but  with  the  first  the  poor  felt  more  at  home.  They  could 
talk  to  her  more  at  ease  ;  she  understood  them  so  much  more 
quickly  ;  they  had  no  need  to  beat  about  the  bush  to  tell  the 
little  peevish  complaints  that  they  were  half-ashamed  to  utter  to 
Evelyn.  What  seemed  so  light  to  the  young,  cheerful  beauty, 
the  mother  listened  to  with  so  grave  and  sweet  a  patience. 
When  all  went  right,  they  rejoiced  to  see  Evelyn  ;  but  in  their 
little  difficulties  and  sorrows,  nobody  was  like  "my  good 
lady ! " 

So  Dame  Newman,  the  moment  she  saw  the  pale  counte- 
nance and  graceful  shape  of  Lady  Vargrave  at  the  threshold, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight.  Now  she  could  let  out  all 
that  she  did  not  like  to  trouble  the  young  lady  with  ;  now  she 
could  complain  of  east  winds,  and  rheumatiz,  and  the  parish 
officers,  and  the  bad  tea  they  sold  poor  people  at  Mr.  Hart's 


l6  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

shop,  and  tlie  ungrateful  grandson  who  was  so  well-to-do,  and 
who  forgot  he  had  a  grandmother  alive  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card  from  the  town  ladies." 

—  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

The  curate  was  gone,  and  the  lessons  suspended  ;  otherwise — 
as  like  each  to  each  as  sunshine  or  cloud  permitted — day  fol- 
lowed day  in  the  calm  retreat  of  Brook-Green  ;  when,  one 
morning,  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  sought  Lady 
Vargrave,  who  was  busied  in  tending  the  flowers  of  a  small 
conservatory  which  she  had  added  to  the  cottage,  when,  from 
various  motives,  and  one  in  especial  powerful  and  mysterious, 
she  exchanged  for  so  sequestered  a  home  the  luxurious  villa 
bequeathed  to  her  by  her  husband. 

To  flowers — those  charming  children  of  Nature,  in  which 
our  age  can  take  the  same  tranquil  pleasure  as  our  youth — Lady 
Vargrave  devoted  much  of  her  monotonous  and  uncheckered 
time.  She  seemed  to  love  them  almost  as  living  things  ;  and 
her  memory  associated  them  with  hours  as  bright  and  as  fleet- 
ing as  themselves. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  I  have  news  for  you. 
My  daughter,  Mrs.  Merton,  who  has  been  in  Cornwall  on  a  visit 
to  her  husband's  mother,  writes  me  word  that  she  will  visit  us 

on  her  road  home  to  the  Rectory  in  B shire.     She  will  not 

put  you  much  out  of  the  way,"  added  Mrs.  Leslie,  smiling, 
"  for  Mr.  Merton  will  not  accompany  her  ;  she  only  brings  her 
daughter  Caroline,  a  lively,  handsome,  intelligent  girl,  who  will  be 
enchanted  with  Evelyn.  All  you  will  regret  is,  that  she  comes 
to  terminate  my  visit,  and  take  me  away  with  her.  If  you  can 
forgive   that  offence,  you  will  have  nothing  else  to  pardon." 

Lady  Vargrave  replied  with  her  usual  simple  kindness,  but 
she  was  evidently  nervous  at  the  visit  of  a  stranger  (for  she 
had  never  yet  seen  Mrs.  Merton),  and  still  more  distressed  at 
the  thought  of  losing  Mrs.  Leslie  a  week  or  two  sooner  than  had 
been  anticipated.  However,  Mrs.  Leslie  hastened  to  reassure 
her.  Mrs.  Merton  was  so  quiet  and  good-natured,  the  wife  of 
a  country  clergyman  with  simple  tastes  ;  and,  after  all,  Mrs.  Les- 
lie s  visit  might  last  as  long,  if  Lady  Vargrave  would  be  contented 
to  extend  her  hospitality  to  Mrs.  Merton  and  Caroline. 

When  the  visit  was  announced  to  Evelyn,  her  young  heart 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  |"  17 

was  susceptible  only  of  pleasure  and  curiosity.  She  had  no 
friend  of  her  own  age ;  she  was  sure  she  should  like  the  grand- 
child of  her  dear  Mrs.  Leslie. 

Evelyn,  who  had  learned  betimes,  from  the  affectionate 
solicitude  of  her  nature,  to  relieve  her  mother  of  such  few 
domestic  cares  as  a  home  so  quiet,  with  an  establishment  so 
regular,  could  afford,  gayly  busied  herself  in  a  thousand  little 
preparations.  She  filled  the  rooms  of  the  visitors  with  flowers 
(not  dreaming  that  any  one  could  fancy  them  unwholesome), 
and  spread  the  tables  with  her  own  favorite  books,  and  had 
the  little  cottage  piano  in  her  own  dressing-room  removed  into 
Caroline's — Caroline  must  be  fond  of  music  ;  she  had  some 
doubts  of  transferring  a  cage  with  two  canaries  into  Caroline's 
room  also,  but  when  she  approached  the  cage  with  that  inten- 
tion, the  birds  chirped  so  merrily,  and  seemed  so  glad  to  see 
her,  and  so  expectant  of  sugar,  that  her  heart  smote  her  for  her 
meditated  desertion  and  ingratitude.  No,  she  could  not  give 
up  the  canaries  ;  but  the  glass  bowl  with  the  gold  fish — oh,  that 
would  look  so  pretty  on  its  stand  just  by  the  casement ;  and 
the  fish — dull  things  ! — would  not  miss  her. 

The  morning — the  noon — the  probable  hour  of  the  impor- 
tant arrival  came  at  last  ;  and  after  having  three  times  within 
the  last  half-hour  visited  the  rooms,  and  settled,  and  unsettled, 
and  settled  again  everything  before  arranged,  Evelyn  retired  to 
her  own  room  to  consult  her  wardrobe,  and  Margaret — once 
her  nurse,  now  her  Abigail.  Alas!  the  wardrobe  of  the  destined 
Lady  Vargrave — the  betrothed  of  a  rising  statesman,  a  new 
and  now  an  ostentatious  peer — the  heiress  of  the  wealthy  Temple- 
ton — was  one  that  many  a  tradesman's  daughter  would  have 
disdained.  Evelyn  visited  so  little  ;  the  clergyman  of  the 
place,  and  two  old  maids  who  lived  most  respectably  on  a  hun- 
dred and  eighty  pounds  a  year,  in  a  cottage,  with  one  maidser- 
vant, two  cats,  and  a  footboy,  bounded  the  circle  of  her 
acquaintance.  Her  mother  was  so  indifferent  to  dress  ;  she 
herself  had  found  so  many  other  ways  of  spending  money  ! — 
but  Evelyn  was  not  now  more  philosophical  than  others  of  her 
age.  She  turned  from  muslin  to  muslin — from  the  colored  to 
the  white,  from  the  white  to  the  colored — with  pretty  anxiety 
and  sorrowful  suspense.  At  last  she  decided  on  the  newest  ; 
and  when  it  was  on,  and  the  single  rose  set  in  the  lustrous  and 
beautiful  hair,  Carson  herself  could  not  have  added  a  charm. 
Happy  age  !     Who  wants  the  arts  of  the  milliner  at  seventeen? 

"And  here,  miss  ;  here's  the  fine  necklace  Lord  Vargrave 
brought  down  when  my  lord  came  last;  it  willlook  so  grand  I" 


l8  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

The  emeralds  glittered  in  their  case — Evelyn  looked  at  them 
irresolutely  ;  then,  as  she  looked,  a  shade  came  over  her  fore- 
head, and  she  sighed,  and  closed  the  lid. 

"  No,  Margaret,  I  do  not  want  it  ;  take  it  away." 

"Oh  dear,  miss  !  what  would  my  lord  say  if  he  were  down? 
And  they  are  so  beautiful !  they  will  look  so  fine  !  Deary  me, 
how  they  sparkle  !  But  you  will  wear  much  finer  when  you  are 
my  lady." 

"I  hear  mamma's  bell ;  go,  Margaret,  she  wants  you." 

Left  alone,  the  young  beauty  sank  down  abstractedly,  and 
though  the  looking-glass  was  opposite,  it  did  not  arrest  her  eye  ; 
she  forgot  her  wardrobe,  her  muslin  dress,  her  fears,  and  her 
guests. 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  "what  a  weight  of  dread  I  feel  ^ifr^when 
I  think  of  Lord  Vargrave  and  this  fatal  engagement  ;  and 
every  day  I  feel  it  more  and  more.  'J'o  leave  my  dear,  dear 
mother — the  cottage — oh  !  I  never  can.  I  used  to  like  him 
when  I  was  a  child  ;  now  I  shudder  at  his  name.  Why  is  this  ? 
He  is  kind — he  condescends  to  seek  to  please.  It  was  the  wish 
of  my  poor  father — for  father  he  really  was  to  me  ;  and  yet — 
oh,  that  he  had  left  me  poor  and  free !" 

At  this  part  of  Evelyn's  meditation  the  unusual  sound  of 
wheels  was  heard  on  the  gravel ;  she  started  up — wiped  the 
tears  from  her  eyes — and  hurried  down  to  welcome  the  ex- 
pected guests. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our  new  visitors  ?  " — 
Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Mrs.  Merton  and  her  daughter  were  already  in  the  middle 
drawing-room,  seated  on  either  side  of  Mrs.  Leslie.  The  former- 
a  woman  of  quiet  and  pleasing  exterior;  her  face  still  handsome, 
and,  if  not  intelligent,  at  least  expressive  of  sober  good-nature 
and  habitual  content.  The  latter  a  fine,  dark-eyed  girl,  of  de- 
cided countenance,  and  what  is  termed  a  showy  style  of  beauty, — 
tall,  self-possessed,  and  dressed  plainly  indeed,  but  after  the 
approved  fashion.  The  rich  bonnet  of  the  large  shape  trhen 
worn;  the  Chantilly  veil;  the  gay  French  Cachemire;  the  full 
sleeves,  at  that  time  the  unnatural  rage;  the  expensive,  yet  un- 
assuming robe  de  sole ;  the  perfect  chaussiire  ;  the  air  of  society; 
the  easy  manner;  the  tranquil  but  scrutinizing  gaze — all  startled, 
discomposed,  and  half-frightened  Evelyn, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I9 

Miss  Merton  herself,  if  more  at  her  ease,  was  equally  surprised 
by  the  beauty  and  unconscious  grace  of  the  young  fairy  before 
her,  and  rose  to  greet  her  with  a  well-bred  cordiality  which  at 
once  made  a  conquest  of  Evelyn's  heart. 

Mrs.  Merton  kissed  her  cheek  and  smiled  kindly  on  her,  but 
said  little.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  a  less  conversable 
and  more  homely  person  than  Caroline. 

When  Evelyn  conducted  them  to  their  rooms,  the  mother  and 
daughter  detected  at  a  glance  the  care  that  had  provided  for 
their  comforts;  and  something  eager  and  expectant  in  Evelyn's 
eyes  taught  the  good-nature  of  the  one  and  the  good  breeding 
of  the  other  to  reward  their  young  hostess  by  various  little  ex- 
clamations of  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

"Dear,  how  nice! — What  a  pretty  writing-desk  !"  said  one. — 
"And  the  pretty  gold  fish!"  said  the  other. — "And  the  piano, 
too,  so  well  placed";  and  Caroline's  fair  fingers  ran  rapidly 
over  the  keys.  Evelyn  retired,  covered  with  smiles  and  blushes. 
And  then  Mrs.  Merton  permitted  herself  to  say  to  the  well- 
dressed  Abigail: 

"  Do  take  away  those  flowers,  they  make  me  quite  faint." 

"And  how  low  the  room  is — so  confined!" — said  Caroline; 
when  the  lady's  lady  withdrew  with  the  condemned  flowers. 
"  And  I  see  no  Pysche — however,  the  poor  people  have  done 
their  best." 

"Sweet  person.  Lady  Vargrave!"  said  Mrs.  Merton — "so  in- 
teresting!— so  beautiful — and  how  youthful  in  appearance!" 

^^'Ho  tournure — not  much  the  manner  of  the  world,"  said 
Caroline. 

"No;  but  something  better." 

"  Hem! "  said  Caroline.  "The  girl  is  very  pretty,  though  too 
small." 

"Such  a  smile — such  eyes — she  is  irresistible! — and  what  a 
fortune! — she  will  be  a  charming  friend  for  you,  Caroline." 

"Yes,  she  may  be  useful,  if  she  marry  Lord  Vargrave;  or, 
indeed,  if  she  make  any  brilliant  match.  What  sort  of  a  man 
is  Lord  Vargrave?" 

"I  never  saw  him;  they  say,  most  fascinating." 

"Well,  she  is  very  happy,"  said  Caroline,  with  a  sigh. 


20  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Two  lovely  damsels  cheer  my  lonely  walk." — Lamb's  Album  Verses. 

After  dinner  there  was  still  light  enough  for  the  young 
people  to  stroll  through  the  garden.  Mrs.  Merton,  who  was 
afraid  of  the  damp,  preferred  staying  within;  and  she  was  so 
quiet,  and  made  herself  so  much  at  home,  that  Lady  Vargrave, 
to  use  Mrs.  Leslie's  phrase,  was  not  the  least  "put  out  "  by  her: 
besides,  she  talked  of  Evelyn,  and  that  was  a  theme  very  dear 
to  Lady  Vargrave,  who  was  both  fond  and  proud  of  Evelyn. 

"This  is  very  pretty,  indeed! — the  view  of  the  sea  quite 
lovely!"  said  Caroline.     "You  draw?" 

"  Yes,  a  little." 

"From  Nature?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"What,  in  Indian  ink?" 

"Yes;  and  water-colors." 

"  Oh! — why,  who  could  have  taught  you  in  this  little  village; 
or,  indeed,  in  this  most  primitive  county?" 

"  We  did  not  come  to  Brook-Green  till  I  was  nearly  fifteen. 
My  dear  mother,  though  very  anxious  to  leave  our  villa  at  Ful- 
ham,  would  not  do  so  on  my  account  while  masters  could  be 
of  service  to  me;  and  as  I  knew  she  had  set  her  heart  on  this 
place,  I  worked  doubly  hard." 

"  Then  she  knew  this  place  before  ?  " 

"  Yes;  she  had  been  here  many  years  ago,  and  took  the  place 
after  my  poor  father's  death — (I  always  call  the  late  Lord  Var- 
grave my  father).  She  used  to  come  here  regularly  once  a  year 
without  me;  and  when  she  returned,  I  thought  her  even  more 
melancholy  than  before."  - 

"  What  makes  the  charm  of  the  place  to  Lady  Vargrave  ?  " 
asked  Caroline,  with  some  interest. 

"  I  don't  know;  unless  it  be  its  extreme  quiet,  or  some  early 
association." 

"  And  who  is  your  nearest  neighbor  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Aubrey,  the  curate.  It  is  so  unlucky  he  is  gone  from 
home  for  a  short  time.  You  can't  think  how  kind  and  pleasant 
he  is — the  most  amiable  old  man  in  the  world — just  such  a  man 
as  Bernardin  St.  Pierre  would  have  loved  to  describe." 

"  Agreeable,  no  doubt,  but  dull — good  curates  generally  are." 

"  Dull — not  the  least;  cheerful,  even  to  playfulness,  and  full 
of  information.  He  has  been  so  good  to  me  about  books;  in» 
deed,  I  have  learned  a  great  deal  from  him," 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE     MYSTERIES.  21 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  an  admirable  judge  of  sermons." 

"  But  Mr.  Aubrey  is  not  severe,"  persisted  Evelyn,  earnestly: 
"  he  is  very  fond  of  Italian  literature,  for  instance;  we  are  read- 
ing Tasso  together." 

"Oh!  pity  he  is  old — I  think  you  said  he  was  old.  Perhaps 
there  is  a  son,  the  image  of  the  sire  ? " 

"Oh  no,"  said  Evelyn,  laughing  innocently;  "Mr.  Aubrey 
never  married." 

"  And  where  does  the  old  gentleman  live  ?  " 

"  Come  a  little  this  way — there,  you  can  just  see  the  roof  of 
his  house,  close  by  the  church." 

"  I  see;  it  is  taut  soit pen  trisie  to  have  the  church  so  near  you." 

"Z><?  you  think  so?  Ah!  but  you  have  not  seen  it:  it  is  the 
prettiest  church  in  the  county;  and  the  little  burial-ground — so 
quiet — so  shut  in;  I  feel  better  every  time  I  pass  it.  Some 
places  breathe  of  religion." 

*'  You  are  poetical,  my  dear  little  friend." 

Evelyn,  who  had  poetry  in  her  nature — and  therefore  some- 
times it  broke  out  in  her  simple  language — colored,  and  felt 
half  ashamed. 

"  It  is  a  favorite  walk  with  my  mother,"  said  she,  apologeti- 
cally; "  she  often  spends  hours  there  alone;  and  so,  perhaps,  I 
think  it  a  prettier  spot  than  others  may.  It  does  not  seem  to 
me  to  have  anything  of  gloom  in  it;  when  I  die,  I  should  like 
to  be  buried  there." 

Caroline  laughed  slightly.  "That  is  a  strange  wish;  but  per- 
haps you  have  been  crossed  in  love  ?  " 

"  I — oh,  you  are  laughing  at  me  !  " 

"  You  do  not  remember  Mr.  Cameron,  your  real  father,  I 
suppose  ?", 

"  No;  I  believe  he  died  before  I  was  born." 

"  Cameron  is  a  Scotch  name:  to  what  tribe  of  Camerons  do 
you  belong  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Evelyn,  rather  embarrassed;  "indeed, 
I  know  nothing  of  my  father's  or  mother's  family.  It  is  very 
odd,  but  I  don't  think  we  have  any  relations.  You  know,  when 
I  am  of  age,  that  I  am  to  take  the  name  of  Templeton." 

"Ah!  the  name  goes  with  the  fortune;  I  understand.  Dear 
Evelyn,  how  rich  you  will  be!     I  do  so  wish  I  were  rich! " 

"  And  I  that  I  were  poor,"  said  Evelyn,  with  an  altered  tone 
and  expression  of  countenance. 

"  Strange  girl  !  what  can  you  mean  ?  " 

Evelyn  said  nothing,  and  Caroline  examined  her  curi- 
pusly. 


22  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"  These  notions  come  from  living  so  much  out  of  the  world, 
my  dear  Evelyn.     How  you  must  long  to  see  more  of  life !  " 

"  I! — not  in  the  least.  I  should  never  like  to  leave  this  place — 
I  could  live  and  die  here." 

"  You  will  think  otherwise  when  you  are  I.ady  Vargrave. — 
Why  do  you  look  so  grave  ?     Do  you  not  love  Lord  Vargrave  ?  " 

"  What  a  question  !  "  said  Evelyn,  turning  away  her  head, 
and  forcing  a  laugh. 

*'  It  is  no  matter  whether  you  do  or  not:  it  is  a  brilliant  posi- 
tion. He  has  rank — reputation — high  office:  all  he  wants  is 
money,  and  that  you  will  give  him.  Alas!  I  have  no  prospect 
so  bright.  I  have  no  fortune,  and  I  fear  my  face  will  never 
buy  a  title,  an  opera-box,  and  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  I 
wish  I  were  the  future  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  were,"  said  Evelyn,  with  grtdX  natveti  j 
"  you  would  suit  Lord  Vargrave  better  than  I  should." 

Caroline  laughed. 

*'  Why  do  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Oh,  his  way  of  thinking  is  like  yours;  he  never  says  any- 
thing I  can  sympathize  with." 

"  A  pretty  compliment  to  me!  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,  you 
will  sympathize  with  me  when  you  have  seen  as  much  of  the 
world.     But  Lord  Vargrave — is  he  too  old  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  of  his  age,  and  indeed  he  looks  younger 
than  he  is." 

"  Is  he  handsome  ?  " 

"  He  is  what  may  be  called  handsome — you  would  think  so." 

"  Well,  if  he  comes  here,  I  will  do  my  best  to  win  him  from 
you;  so  look  to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  should  be  so  grateful;  I  should  like  him. so  much  if 
he  would  fall  in  love  with  you  !  " 

*'  I  fear  there  is  no  chance  of  that." 

"But  how,"  said  Evelyn,  hesitatingly,  after  a  pause;  "how 
is  it  that  you  have  seen  so  much  more  of  the  world  than  I  have  ? 
I  thought  Mr.  Merton  lived  a  great  deal  in  the  country." 

"  Yes,  but  my  uncle,  Sir  John  Merton,  is  member  for  the 
county:  my  grandmother  on  my  father's  side — Lady  Elizabeth, 
who  has  Tregony  Castle  (which  we  have  just  left)  for  her  join- 
ture-house— goes  to  town  almost  every  season,  and  I  have  spent 
three  seasons  with  her.  She  is  a  charming  old  woman — quite 
the  grande  dame.  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  remains  in  Cornwall 
this  year;  she  has  not  been  very  well:  the  physicians  forbid 
late  hours  and  London:  but  even  in  the  country  we  are  very 
gay.     My  uncle  lives  near  us,  and,  though  a  widower,  has  his 


AtlCE  ;    OR,  tHE   MYSTERIES.  ^3 

house  full  when  down  at  Merton  Park;  and  papa,  too,  is  rich — 
very  hospitable  and  popular — and  will,  I  hope,  be  a  bishop  one 
of  these  days — not  at  all  like  a  mere  country  parson;  and  so, 
somehow  or  other,  I  have  learned  to  be  ambitious — we  are  an 
ambitious  family  on  papa's  side.  But,  alas!  I  have  not  your 
cards  to  play.  Young,  beautiful,  and  an  heiress!  Ah,  what 
prospects!     You  should  make  your  mamma  take  you  to  town." 

"To  town!  she  would  be  wretched  at  the  very  idea.  Oh, 
you  don't  know  us." 

"  I  can't  help  fancying,  Miss  Evelyn,"  said  Caroline  archly, 
*'  that  you  are  not  so  blind  to  Lord  Vargrave's  perfections,  and 
so  indifferent  to  London,  only  from  the  pretty,  innocent  way  of 
thinking,  that  so  prettily  and  innocently  you  express.  I  dare 
say,  if  the  truth  were  known,  there  is  some  handsome  young 
rector,  besides  the  old  curate,  who  plays  the  flute,  and  preaches 
sentimental  sermons  in  white  kid  gloves." 

Evelyn  laughed  merrily — so  merrily  that  Caroline's  suspicions 
vanished.  They  continued  to  walk  and  talk  thus,  till  the  night 
came  on,  and  then  they  went  in;  and  Evelyn  showed  Caroline 
her  drawings,  which  astonished  that  young  lady,  who  was  a 
good  judge  of  accomplishments.  Evelyn's  performance  on  the 
piano  astonished  her  yet  more;  but  Caroline  consoled  herself 
on  this  point,  for  her  voice  was  more  powerful,  and  she  sang 
French  songs  with  much  more  spirit.  Caroline  showed  talent 
in  all  she  undertook,  but  Evelyn,  despite  her  simplicity,  had 
genius,  though  as  yet  scarcely  developed;  for  she  had  quickness, 
emotion,  susceptibility,  imagination.  And  the  difference  between 
talent  and  genius  lies  rather  in  the  heart  than  the  head. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

"  Dost  thou  feel 
The  solemn  whispering  influence  of  the  scene 
Oppressing  thy  young  heart,  that  thou  dost  draw 
More  closely  to  my  side  ?  " — F.  Hemans:    Wood  Walk  and  Hymn. 

Caroline  and  Evelyn,  as  was  natural,  became  great  friends. 
They  were  not  kindred  to  each  other  in  disposition,  but  they 
were  thrown  together,  and  friendship  thus  forced  upon  both. 
Unsuspecting  and  sanguine,  it  was  natural  to  Evelyn  to  admire; 
and  Caroline  was,  to  her  inexperience,  a  brilliant  and  imposing 
novelty.  Sometimes  Miss  Merton's  worldliness  of  thought 
shocked  Evelyn;  but  then  Caroline  had  a  way  with  her  as  if 
she  were  not  in  earnest — as  if  she  were  merely  indulging  an 


24  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

inclination  towards  irony;  nor  was  she  without  a  certain  vein 
of  sentiment  that  persons  a  little  hackneyed  in  the  world,  and 
young  ladies  a  little  disappointed  that  they  are  not  wives  in- 
stead of  maids,  easily  acquire.  Trite  as  this  vein  of  sentiment 
was,  poor  Evelyn  thought  it  beautiful  and  most  feeling.  Then, 
Caroline  was  clever,  entertaining,  cordial,  with  all  that  super- 
ficial superiority  that  a  girl  of  twenty-three  who  knows  London 
readily  exercises  over  a  country  girl  of  seventeen.  On  the  other 
hand,  Caroline  was  kind  "and  affectionate  towards  her.  The 
clergyman's  daughter  felt  that  she  could  not  be  always  superior, 
even  in  fashion,  to  the  wealthy  heiress. 

One  evening,  as  Mrs.  Leslie  and  Mrs,  Merton  sate  under  the 
veranda  of  the  cottage,  without  their  hostess,  who  had  gone 
alone  into  the  village — and  the  young  ladies  were  confidentially 
conversing  on  the  lawn,  Mrs.  Leslie  said  rather  abruptly,  "Is 
not  Evelyn  a  delightful  creature  ?  How  unconscious  of  her 
beauty;  how  simple,  and  yet  so  naturally  gifted  !  " 

*'  I  have  never  seen  one  who  interested  me  more,"  said  Mrs. 
Merton,  settling  her  pelerine ;  "  she  is  extremely  pretty." 

"  I  am  so  anxious  about  her,"  resumed  Mrs.  Leslie,  thought- 
fully. "  You  know  the  wish  of  the  late  Lord  Vargravc  that  she 
should  marry  his  nephew,  the  present  lord,  when  she  reaches 
the  age  of  eighteen.  She  only  wants  nine  or  ten  months  of  that 
time;  she  has  seen  nothing  of  the  world;  she  is  not  fit  to  de- 
cide for  herself;  and  Lady  Vargrave,  the  best  of  human  creat- 
ures, is  still  herself  almost  too  inexperienced  in  the  world  to  be 
a  guide  for  one  so  young,  placed  in  such  peculiar  circumstances 
and  of  prospects  so  brilliant.  Lady  Vargrave,  at  heart,  is  a 
child  still,  and  will  be  so,  even  when  as  old  as  I  am." 

"It  is  very  true,"  said  Mrs.  Merton.  "  Don't  you  fear  that 
the  girls  will  catch  cold  ?  the  dew  is  falling,  and  the  grass  must 
be  wet." 

"I  have  thought,"  continued  Mrs.  Leslie,  without  heeding 
the  latter  part  of  Mrs.  Merton's  speech,  "  that  it  would  be  a 
kind  thing  to  invite  Evelyn  to  stay  with  you  a  few  months  at 
the  Rectory.  To  be  sure,  it  is  not  like  London;  but  you  see 
a  great  deal  of  the  world:  the  society  at  your  house  is  well 
selected,  and  at  times  even  brilliant; — she  will  meet  young 
people  of  her  own  age,  and  young  people  fashion  and  form  each 
other." 

"  I  was  thinking  myself,  that  I  should  like  to  invite  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Merton;  "I  will  consult  Caroline." 

"Caroline,  I  am  sure,  would  be  delighted;  the  difficulty  lies 
rather  in  Evelyn  herself." 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  2^ 

"  You  surprise  me  !  she  must  be  moped  to  death  here." 

"  But  will  she  leave  her  mother  ?  " 

"  Why,  Caroline  often  leaves  me,"  said  Mrs.  Merton. 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  silent,  and  Evelyn  and  her  new  friend  now 
joined  the  mother  and  daughter. 

*'  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  Evelyn  to  pay  us  a  little 
visit,"  said  Caroline;  "she  could  accompany  us  so  nicely;  and 
if  she  is  still  strange  with  us — dear  grandmamma  goes  too: — 
I  am  sure  we  can  make  her  at  home." 

"How  odd  !"  said  Mrs.  Merton;  "we  were  just  saying  the 
same  thing.  My  dear  Miss  Cameron,  we  should  be  so  happy 
to  have  you." 

"  And  I  should  be  so  happy  to  go,  if  mamma  would  but  go 
too." 

As  she  spoke,  the  moon,  just  risen,  showed  the  form  of  Lady 
Vargrave  slowly  approaching  the  house.  By  the  light,  her 
features  seemed  more  pale  than  usual;  and  her  slight  and  deli- 
cate form,  with  its  gliding  motion  and  noiseless  step,  had  in  it 
something  almost  ethereal  and  unearthly. 

Evelyn  turned  and  saw  her,  and  her  heart  smote  her.  Her 
mother — so  wedded  to  the  dear  cottage — and  had  this  gay 
stranger  rendered  that  dear  cottage  less  attractive — she  who  had 
said  she  could  live  and  die  in  its  humble  precincts  ?  Abruptly 
she  left  her  new  friend,  hastened  to  her  mother,  and  threw  her 
arms  fondly  round  her. 

"  You  are  pale,  you  have  over-fatigued  yourself: — where  have 
you  been  ? — why  did  you  not  take  me  with  you  ?" 

Lady  Vargrave  pressed  Evelyn's  hand  affectionately. 

"You  care  for  me  too  much,"  said  she.  "I  am  but  a  dull 
companion  for  you;  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you  happy  with  one 
better  suited  to  your  gay  spirits.  What  can  we  do  when  she 
leaves  us  ? " 

"Ah,  I  want  no  companion  but  my  own — own  mother. — And 
have  I  not  Sultan,  too  ? "  added  Evelyn,  smiling  away  the  tear 
that  had  started  to  her  eyes. 


a6  ALICE  ;   OR,  the  mysteries. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Friend  after  friend  departs. 
Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 
That  finds  not  here  an  end." — J.  Montgomery. 

That  night,  Mrs.  Leslie  sought  Lady  Vargrave  in  her  own 
room.  As  she  entered  gently  she  observed  that,  late  as  the 
hour  was,  Lady  Vargrave  was  stationed  by  the  open  window, 
and  seemed  intently  gazing  on  the  scene  below.  Mrs.  Leslie 
reached  her  side  unperceived.  The  moonlight  was  exceedingly 
bright,  and  just  beyond  the  garden,  from  which  it  was  separated 
but  by  a  slight  fence,  lay  the  solitary  churchyard  of  the  hamlet, 
with  the  slender  spire  of  the  holy  edifice  rising  high  and  taper- 
ing into  the  shining  air.  It  was  a  calm  and  tranquillizing  scene; 
and  so  intent  was  Lady  Vargrave's  abstracted  gaze,  that  Mrs. 
Leslie  was  unwilling  to  disturb  her  revery. 

At  length  Lady  Vargrave  turned;  and  there  was  that  patient 
and  pathetic  resignation  written  in  her  countenance  which  be- 
longs to  those  whom  the  world  can  deceive  no  more,  and  who 
have  fixed  their  hearts  in  the  life  beyond. 

Mrs.  Leslie,  whatever  she  thought  or  felt,  said  nothing,  ex- 
cept in  kindly  remonstrance  on  the  indiscretion  of  braving  the 
night  air.     The  window  was  closed;  they  sat  down  to  confer. 

Mrs.  Leslie  repeated  the  invitation  given  to  Evelyn,  and 
urged  the  advisability  of  accepting  it.  "  It  is  cruel  to  separate 
you,"  said  she;  "I  feel  it  acutely.  Why  not,  then,  come  with 
Evelyn  ?  You  shake  your  head — why  always  avoid  society  ? — 
So  young  yet,  you  give  yourself  too  much  to  the  past  I  " 

Lady  Vargrave  rose  and  walked  to  a  cabinet  at  the  end  of 
the  room;  she  unlocked  it,  and  beckoned  to  Mrs.  Leslie  to  ap- 
proach. In  a  drawer  lay  carefully  folded  articles  of  female 
dress — rude,  homely,  ragged — the  dress  of  a  peasant  girl. 

"  Do  these  remind  you  of  your  first  charity  to  me  ?  "  she  said 
touchingly:  "they  tell  me  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
world  in  which  you  and  yours,  and  Evelyn  herself,  should 
move." 

"Too  tender  conscience  ! — your  errors  were  but  those  of  cir- 
cumstance— of  youth; — how  have  they  been  redeemed  ! — none 
even  suspect  them.  Your  past  history  is  known  but  to  the  good 
old  Aubrey  and  myself.  No  breath  even  of  rumor  tarnishes 
the  name  of  Lady  Vargrave." 

"Mrs.  Leslie,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  reclosing  the  cabinet, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES,  27 

and  again  seating  herself,  "my  world  lies  around  me — I  cannot 
quit  it.  If  I  were  of  use  to  Evelyn,  then,  indeed,  I  would  sac- 
rifice— brave  all; — but  I  only  cloud  her  spirits:  I  have  no  ad- 
vice to  give  her — no  instruction  to  bestow.  When  she  was  a 
child,  I  could  watch  over  her;  when  she  was  sick,  I  could  nurse 
her;  but  now  she  requires  an  adviser — a  guide;  and  I  feel  too 
sensibly  that  this  task  is  beyond  my  powers.  I,  a  guide  to 
youth  and  innocence  ! — /.'  No,  I  have  nothing  to  offer  her — 
dear  child  ! — but  my  love  and  my  prayers.  Let  your  daughter 
take  her,  then — watch  over  her,  guide,  advise  her.  For  me — 
unkind,  ungrateful  as  it  may  seem — were  she  but  happy,  I  could 
well  bear  to  be  alone  !  " 

"  But  she — how  will  she,  who  loves  you  so,  submit  to  this 
separation  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  and,"  added  Lady  Vargrave,  with  a  seri- 
ous, yet  sweet  smile,  "  she  had  better  be  prepared  for  that  sep- 
aration which  must  come  at  last.  As  year  by  year  I  outlive  my 
last  hope,  that  of  once  more  beholding  him — I  feel  that  life  be- 
comes feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  look  more  on  that  quiet  church- 
yard as  a  home  to  which  I  am  soon  returning.  At  all  events, 
Evelyn  will  be  called  upon  to  form  new  ties,  that  must  estrange 
her  from  me;  let  her  wean  herself  from  one  so  useless  to  her, 
to  all  the  world, — now,  and  by  degrees." 

"Speak  not  thus,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  strongly  affected;  "you 
have  many  years  of  happiness  yet  in  store  for  you; — the  more 
you  recede  from  youth,  the  fairer  life  will  become  to  you." 

"  God  is  good  to  me,"  said  the  lady,  raising  her  meek  eyes  ; 
"  and  I  have  already  found  it  so — I  am  contented." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  The  greater  part  of  them  seemed  to  be  charmed  with  his  presence." 

Mackenzie:   The  Man  of  the  World. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  Evelyn  could,  at  last, 
be  persuaded  to  consent  to  the  separation  from  her  mother:  she 
wept  bitterly  at  the  thought.  But  Lady  Vargrave,  though 
touched,  was  firm,  and  her  firmness  was  of  that  soft,  imploring 
character,  which  Evelyn  never  could  resist.  The  visit  was  to 
last  some  months,  it  is  true;  but  she  would  return  to  the  cot- 
tage; she  would  escape  too — and  this,  perhaps,  unconsciously 
reconciled  her  more  than  aught  else — the  periodical  visit  of 
Lord  Vargrave.     At  the  end  of  July,  when  the  parliamentary 


28  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

session,  at  that  unreformed  era,  usually  expired,  he  always  came 
to  Brook-Green  for  a  month.  His  last  visits  had  been  most 
unwelcome  to  Evelyn,  and  this  next  visit  slie  dreaded  more 
than  slie  had  any  of  the  former  ones.  It  is  strange,  the  repug- 
nance with  which  she  regarded  the  suit  of  her  affianced  ! — she 
Avhose  heart  was  yet  virgin — who  had  never  seen  any  one  who, 
in  form,  manner,  and  powers  to  please,  could  be  compared  to 
the  gay  Lord  Vargrave.  And  yet  a  sense  of  honor — of  what 
was  due  to  her  dead  benefactor,  her  more  than  father — all  com- 
bated that  repugnance,  and  left  her  uncertain  what  course  to 
pursue,  uncalculating  as  to  the  future.  In  the  happy  elasticity 
of  her  spirits,  and  with  a  carelessness  almost  approaching  to 
levity,  which,  to  say  truth,  was  natural  to  her,  she  did  not  often 
recall  the  solemn  engagement  that  must  soon  be  ratified  or  an- 
nulled; but  when  that  thought  did  occur,  it  saddened  her  for 
hours,  and  left  her  listless  and  despondent.  The  visit  to  Mrs. 
Merton  was,  then,  finally  arranged — the  day  of  departure  fixed — 
when,  one  morning,  came  the  following  letter  from  Lord  Var- 
grave himself : 

"  To  the  Lady  Vargrave,  etc.  etc.  : 

"  My  Dear  Friend, — I  find  that  we  have  a  week's  holy-day 
in  our  do-nothing  Chamber,  and  the  weather  is  so  delightful, 
that  I  long  to  share  its  enjoyment  with  those  I  love  best.  You 
will,  therefore,  see  me  almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this;  that 
is,  I  shall  be  with  you  at  dinner  on  the  same  day.  What  can  I 
say  to  Evelyn  ?  Will  you,  dearest  Lady  Vargrave,  make  her 
accept  all  the  homage  which,  when  uttered  by  me,  she  seems 
half  inclined  to  reject  ? 

"  In  haste,  most  affectionately  yours, 

"  Vargrave. 

'^Ifamiiton  Place,  April  ^oth,  18-." 

This  letter  was  by  no  means  welcome,  either  to  Mrs.  Leslie  or 
to  Evelyn.  The  former  feared  that  Lord  Vargrave  would 
disapprove  of  a  visit,  the  real  objects  of  which  could  scarcely  be 
owned  to  him.  The  latter  was  reminded  of  all  she  desired 
to  forget.  But  Lady  Vargrave  herself  rather  rejoiced  at  the 
thought  of  Lumley's  arrival.  Hitherto,  in  the  spirit  of  her 
passive  and  gentle  character,  she  had  taken  the  engagement  be- 
tween Evelyn  and  Lord  Vargrave  almost  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  will  and  wish  of  her  late  husband  operated  most  powerfully 
on  her  mind  ;  and  while  Evelyn  was  yet  in  childhood  Lumley's 
visits  had  ever  been  acceptable,  and  the  playful  girl  liked  the 
gay,  good-humored  lord,  who  brought  her  all  spits  of  pre§- 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  29 

ents,  and  appeared  as  fond  of  dogs  as  herself.  But  Evelyn's 
recent  change  of  manner,  her  frequent  fits  of  dejection  and 
thought — once  pointed  out  to  Lady  Vargrave  by  Mrs.  Leslie — 
aroused  all  the  affectionate  and  maternal  anxiety  of  the  former. 
She  was  resolved  to  watch,  to  examine,  to  scrutinize — not  only 
Evelyn's  reception  of  V&rgrave,  but,  as  far  as  she  could,  the 
manner  and  disposition  of  Vargrave  himself.  She  felt  how 
solemn  a  trust  was  the  happiness  of  a  whole  life  ;  and  she  had 
that  romance  of  heart,  learned  from  Nature,  not  in  books,  which 
made  her  believe  that  there  could  be  no  happiness  in  a  marriage 
without  love. 

The  whole  family  party  were  on  the  lawn,  when,  an  hour 
earlier  than  he  was  expected,  the  travelling  carriage  of  Lord 
Vargrave  was  whirled  along  the  narrow  sweep  that  conducted 
from  the  lodge  to  tlie  house.  Vargrave,  as  he  saw  the  party, 
kissed  his  hand  from  the  window  ;  and,  leaping  from  the  car- 
riage when  it  stopped  at  the  porch,  hastened  to  meet  his  hostess. 

'■  My  dear  Lady  Vargrave,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  You  are 
looking  charmingly;  and  Evelyn? — oh,  there  she  is;  the  dear 
coquette,  how  lovely  she  is  ! — how  she  has  improved  !  But  who 
(sinking  his  voice),  who  are  those  ladies  ?  " 

"Guests  of  ours — Mrs.  Leslie,  whom  you  have  often  heard  us 
speak  of,  but  never  met — " 

'■  Yes — and  the  others  ?  " 

"  Her  daughter  and  grandchild." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  know  them." 

A  more  popular  manner  than  Lord  Vargrave's  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive.  Frank  and  prepossessing,  even  when  the  poor  and 
reckless  Mr.  Ferrers,  without  rank  or  reputation — his  smile— 
the  tone  of  his  voice — his  familiar  courtesy — apparently  so  in- 
artificial and  approaching  almost  to  a  boyish  bluntness  of  good- 
humor — were  irresistible  in  the  rising  statesman  and  favored 
courtier. 

Mrs.  Merton  was  enchanted  with  him  ;  Caroline  thought  him, 
at  the  first  glance,  the  most  fascinating  person  she  had  ever 
seen  ;  even  Mrs.  Leslie,  more  grave,  cautious,  and  penetrating, 
was  almost  equally  pleased  with  the  first  impression  ;  and  it  was 
not  till,  in  his  occasional  silence,  his  features  settled  into  their 
natural  expression  that  she  fancied  she  detected,  in  the  quick 
suspicious  eye  and  the  close  compression  of  the  lips,  the  tokens  of 
that  wily,  astute,  and  worldly  character,  which,  in  proportion  as 
he  had  risen  in  his  career,  even  his  own  party  reluctantly  and 
mysteriously  assigned  to  one  of  their  most  prominent  leaders. 

When  Vargrave  tQok  Evelyn's  h^nd  and  raised  it  with  meaning 


3©  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

gallantry  to  his  lips,  the  girl  first  blushed  deeply  and  then  turned 
pale  as  death  ;  nor  did  the  color  thus  chased  away  soon  return 
to  the  transparent  cheek.  Not  noticing  signs  which  might  bear 
a  twofold  interpretation,  Lumley,  who  seemed  in  high  spirits, 
rattled  away  on  a  thousand  matters — praising  the  view,  the 
weather,  the  journey — throwing  out  a  joke  here,  and  a  com- 
pliment there,  and  completing  his  conquest  over  Mrs.  Merton 
and  Caroline. 

*'  You  have  left  London  in  the  very  height  of  its  gaiety,  Lord 
Vargrave,"  said  Caroline,  as  they  sat  conversing  after  dinner, 

"  True,  Miss  Merton  ;  but  the  country  is  in  the  height  of  its 
gaiety  too." 

"  Are  you  so  fond  of  the  country  then  ?  " 

"  By  fits  and  starts — my  passion  for  it  comes  in  with  the  early 
strawberries,  and  goes  out  with  the  hautboys — I  lead  so  artificial 
a  life  ;  but  then  1  hope  it  is  an  useful  one.  I  want  nothing  but 
a  home  to  make  it  a  happy  one." 

"  What  is  the  latest  news  ? — dear  London  !  I  am  so  sorry — 
grandmamma,  Lady  Elizabeth,  is  not  going  there  this  year,  so  I 

am  compelled  to  rusticate.     Is  Lady  Jane  D to  be  married 

at  last  ? " 

"  Commend  me  to  a  young  lady's   idea   of  news — always 

marriage !     Lady  Jane  D !   yes,  she  is  to  be  married,  as 

you  say — at  last!  While  she  was  a  beauty,  our  cold  sex  were 
shy  of  her ;  but  she  has  now  faded  into  plainness — the  proper 
color  for  a  wife." 

"  Complimentary ! " 

"  Indeed  it  is — for  you  beautiful  women  we  love  too  much  for 
our  own  happiness — heigho  ! — and  a  prudent  marriage  means 
friendly  indifference,  not  rapture  and  despair.  But  give  me 
beauty  and  love;    I  never  was  prudent ;  it  is  not  my  weakness." 

Though  Caroline  was  his  sole  supporter  in  this  dialogue.  Lord 
Vargrave's  eyes  attempted  to  converse  with  Evelyn,  who  was  un- 
usually silent  and  abstracted.  Suddenly  Lord  Vargrave  seemed 
aware  that  he  was  scarcely  general  enough  in  his  talk  for  his 
hearers.  He  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Leslie  and  glided  back, 
as  it  were,  into  a  former  generation.  He  spoke  of  persons  gone 
and  things  forgotten  ;  he  made  the  subject  interesting  even  to 
the  young,  by  a  succession  of  various  and  sparkling  anecdotes. 
No  one  could  be  more  agreeable  ;  even  Evelyn  now  listened  to 
him  with  pleasure;  for  to  all  women  wit  and  intellect  have  their 
charm.  But  still  there  was  a  cold  and  sharp  levity  in  the  tone 
of  the  man  of  the  world  that  prevented  the  charm  sinking  below 
th?  surface,     Tp  Mrs.  I^eslie  h?  seemed  unconsciously  to  betray 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  ^1 

a  laxity  of  principle  ;  to  Evelyn  a  want  of  sentiment  and  heart. 
Lady  Vargrave,  who  did  not  understand  a  character  of  this 
description,  listened  attentively,  and  said  to  herself,  *'  Evelyn 
may  admire,  but  I  fear  she  cannot  love  him."  Still,  time  passed 
quickly  in  Lumley's  presence,  and  Caroline  thought  she  had 
never  spent  so  pleasant  an  evening. 

When  Lord  Vargrave  retired  to  his  room,  he  threw  himself  in 
his  chair  and  yawned  with  exceeding  fervor.  His  servant 
arranged  his  dressing-robe  and  placed  his  portfolios  and  letter- 
boxes on  tile  table. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it?"  said  Lumley. 

"  Very  early,  my  lord  ;    only  eleven." 

"The  devil! — the  country  air  is  wonderfully  exhausting.  I 
am  very  sleepy  ;  you  may  go." 

"This  little  girl,"  said  Lumley,  stretching  himself,  "is  pre- 
ternaturally  shy — I  must  neglect  her  no  longer — yet  it  is  surely 
all  safe.  She  has  grown  monstrous  pretty  ;  but  the  other  girl 
is  more  amusing,  more  to  my  taste,  and  a  much  easier  conquest, 
I  fancy.  Her  great  dark  eyes  seemed  full  of  admiration  for  my 
lordship — sensible  young  woman  ! — she  may  be  useful  in  piquing 
Evelyn." 


CHAPTER  X. 
Julio.  "  Wilt  thou  have  him  ?  "—  The  Maid  in  the  Mill. 

Lord  Vargrave  heard  the  next  morning  with  secret  distaste 
and  displeasure  of  Evelyn's  intended  visit  to  the  Mertons. 
He  could  scarcely  make  any  open  objection  to  it  ;  but  he  did 
not  refrain  from  many  insinuations  as  to  its  impropriety. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  he  to  Lady  Vargrave,  "  it  is  scarcely 
riglit  in  you  (pardon  me  for  saying  it)  to  commit  Evelyn  to  the 
care  of  comparative  strangers.  Mrs.  Leslie,  indeed,  you  know; 
but  Mrs.  Merton,  you  allow,  you  have  now  seen  for  the  first 
time — a  most  respectable  person,  doubtless  ;  but  still,  recollect 
hovv  young  Evelyn  is — how  rich — what  a  prize  to  any  younger 
sons  in  the  Merton  family  (if  such  there  be).  Miss  Merton 
herself  is  a  shrewd,  worldly  girl  ;  and  if  she  were  of  our  sex, 
would  make  a  capital  fortune-hunter.  Don't  think  my  fear  is 
selfish  ;  I  do  not  speak  for  myself.  If  I  were  Evelyn's  brother, 
I  should  be  yet  more  earnest  in  my  remonstrance." 

"  But,  Lord  Vargrave,  poor  Evelyn  is  dull  here ;  my  spirits 
infect  hers.  She  ought  to  mix  more  with  those  of  her  own  age, 
to  see  more  of  the  world  before — before — " 


32  ALICE  ;     OR,  thl;    MVSTERIES. 

"  Before  her  marriage  with  me.  Forgive  me,  but  is  not  that 
my  affair  ?  If  I  am  contented,  nay,  charmed,'  with  her  inno- 
cence— if  I  prefer  it  to  all  the  arts  which  society  could  teach 
her, — surely  you  would  be  acquitted  for  leaving  her  in  the  beau- 
tiful simplicity  that  makes  her  chief  fascination  ?  She  will  see 
enough  of  the  world  as  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  But  if  she  should  resolve  never  to  be  Lady  Vargrave — ?  " 

Lumley  started,  bit  his  lip,  and  frowned.  Lady  Vargrave 
had  never  before  seen  on  his  countenance  the  dark  expression 
it  now  wore.  He  recollected  and  recovered  himself,  as  he  saw 
her  eye  fixed  upon  him,  and  said,  with  a  constrained  smile — 

"Can  you  anticipate  an  event  so  fatal  to  my  happiness,  so 
unforeseen,  so  opposed  to  all  my  poor  uncle's  wishes,  as  Evelyn's 
rejection  of  a  suit  pursued  for  years,  and  so  solemnly  sanctioned 
in  her  very  childhood  ? " 

"  She  must  decide  for  herself,"  said  Lady  Vargrave.  "  Your 
uncle  carefully  distinguished  between  a  wish  and  a  command. 
Her  heart  is  as  yet  untouched.  If  she  can  love  you,  may  you 
deserve  her  affection." 

"  It  shall  be  my  study  to  do  so.  But  why  this  departure  from 
your  roof,  just  when  we  ought  to  see  most  of  each  other  ?  It 
cannot  be  that  you  would  separate  us  ?  " 

"  I  fear.  Lord  Vargrave,  that  if  Evelyn  were  to  remain  here, 
she  would  decide  against  you,  I  fear  if  you  press  her  now, 
such  now  may  be  her  premature  decision.  Perhaps  this  arises 
from  too  fond  an  attachment  for  her  home  :  perhaps  even  a 
short  absence  from  her  home — from  me — may  more  reconcile 
her  to  a  permanent  separation," 

Vargrave  could  say  no  more  ;  for  here  they  were  joined  by 
Caroline  and  Mrs.  Merton,  But  his  manner  was  changed,  nor 
could  he  recover  the  gaiety  of  the  previous  night. 

When,  however,  he  found  time  for  meditation,  he  contrived 
to  reconcile  himself  to  the  intended  visit.  He  felt  that  it  was 
easy  to  secure  the  friendship  of  the  whole  of  the  Merton  family, 
and  that  friendship  might  be  more  useful  to  him  than  the  neu- 
tral part  adopted  by  Lady  Vargrave.  He  should,  of  course,  be 
invited  to  the  Rectory  ;  it  was  much  nearer  London  than  Lady 
Vargrave's  cottage — he  could  more  often  escape  from  public 
cares  to  superintend  his  private  interests.  A  country  neighbor- 
hood, particularly  at  that  season  of  the  year,  was  not  likely  to 
abound  in  very  dangerous  rivals.  Evelyn  would,  he  saw,  be 
surrounded  by  a  worldly  family,  and  he  thought  that  an  advan- 
tage ;  it  might  serve  to  dissipate  Evelyn's  romantic  tendencies, 
gnd  make  her  sensible  of  the  pleasures  of  the  London  life,  the  oflS- 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  33 

cial  rank,  the  gay  society  that  her  union  with  him  would  offer 
as  an  equivalent  for  her  fortune.  In  short,  as  was  his  wont, 
he  strove  to  make  the  best  of  the  new  turn  affairs  had  taken. 
Though  guardian  to  Miss  Cameron  and  one  of  the  trustees  for 
the  fortune  she  was  to  receive  on  attaining  her  majority,  he  had 
not  the  right  to  dictate  as  to  her  residence.  The  late  lord's 
will  had  expressly  and  pointedly  corroborated  the  natural 
and  lawful  authority  of  Lady  Vargrave  in  all  matters  connected 
with  Evelyn's  education  and  home.  It  may  be  as  well  in  this 
place  to  add,  that  to  Vargrave  and  the  co-trustee,  Mr.  Gus- 
tavus  Douce,  a  banker  of  repute  and  eminence,  the  testator  left 
large  discretionary  powers  as  to  the  investment  of  the  fortune. 
He  had  stated  it  as  his  wish  that  from  one  hundred  and  twenty 
to  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  pounds  should  be  invested 
in  the  purchase  of  a  landed  estate  ;  but  he  had  left  it  to  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  trustees  to  increase  that  sum,  even  to  the  amount 
of  the  whole  capital,  should  an  estate  of  adequate  importance 
be  in  the  market ;  while  the  selection  of  time  and  purchase  was 
unreservedly  confined  to  the  trustees.  Vargrave  had  hitherto 
objected  to  every  purchase  in  the  market  ;  not  that  he  was  in- 
sensible to  the  importance  and  consideration  of  landed  prop- 
erty, but  because,  till  he  himself  became  the  legal  receiver  of 
the  income,  he  thought  it  less  trouble  to  suffer  the  money  to  lie 
in  the  funds  than  to  be  pestered  with  all  the  onerous  details 
in  the  management  of  an  estate  that  might  never  be  his.  He, 
however,  with  no  less  ardor  than  his  deceased  relative,  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  the  title  of  Vargrave  should  be  based 
upon  the  venerable  foundation  of  feudal  manors  and  seignorial 
acres. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  Lord  Vargrave  was  so  charming?" 
said  Caroline  to  Evelyn,  as  the  two  girls  were  sauntering  in 
familiar  tite-a-tete,  along  the  gardens.  "  You  will  be  very  happy 
with  such  a  companion." 

Evelyn  made  no  answer  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  turn- 
ing abruptly  round  to  Caroline  and  stopping  short,  she  said, 
with  a  kind  of  tearful  eagerness,  "  Dear  Caroline,  you  are  so 
wise,  so  kind  too — advise  me — tell  me  what  is  best.  I  am  very 
unhappy." 

Miss  Merton  was  moved  and  surprised  by  Evelyn's  earnest- 
ness. 

"  But  what  is  it,  my  poor  Evelyn,"  said  she  ;  "  why  are  you 
unhappy? — you  whose  fate  seems  to  me  so  enviable." 

"  I  cannot  love  Lord  Vargrave  ;  I  recoil  from  the  idea  of 
marrying  him.     Ought  I  not  fairly  to  tell  him  so  ?     Ought  I 


34  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES, 

not  to  say,  that  I  cannot  fulfill  the  wish  that — oh,  there's  the 
thought  which  leaves  me  so  irresolute  ! — his  uncle  bequeathed 
to  me — me  who  have  no  claim  of  relationship — the  fortune  that 
should  have  been  Lord  Vargrave's,  in  the  belief  that  my  hand 
would  restore  it  to  him.  It  is  almost  a  fraud  to  refuse  him. 
Am  I  not  to  be  pitied  ?  " 

"  But  why  can  you  not  love  Lord  Vargrave  ?  If  past  the  pre- 
miere  Jeunesse,  he  is  still  handsome  :  he  is  more  than  handsome: 
he  has  the  air  of  rank — an  eye  that  fascinates — a  smile  that 
wins — the  manners  that  please — the  abilities  that  command — 
the  world  !  Handsome  —  clever — admired  —  distinguished — 
what  can  woman  desire  more  in  her  lover — her  husband?  Have 
you  ever  formed  some  fancy,  some  ideal  of  the  one  you  could 
love,  and  how  does  Lord  Vargrave  fall  short  of  the  vision  ?" 

"  Have  I  ever  formed  an  ideal  ? — oh,  yes  !  "  said  Evelyn,  with 
a  beautiful  enthusiasm  that  lighted  up  her  eyes,  blushed  in  her 
cheek,  and  heaved  her  bosom  beneath  its  robe;  "something 
that  in  loving  I  could  also  revere  :  a  mind  that  would  elevate 
my  own  ;  a  heart  that  could  sympathize  with  my  weakness,  my 
follies,  my  romance,  if  you  will ;  and  in  which  I  could  treasure 
my  whole  soul," 

"  You  paint  a  schoolmaster,  not  a  lover !  "  said  Caroline. 
"  You  do  not  care,  then,  whether  this  hero  be  handsome  or 
young  ? " 

"Oh,  yes, he  should  be  both," said  Evelyn,  innocently  ;  "and 
yet,"  she  added,  after  a  pause  and  with  an  infantine  playfulness 
of  manner  and  countenance,  "  I  know  you  will  laugh  at  me  ; 
but  I  think  I  could  be  in  love  with  more  than  one  at  the  same 
time  !  "  - 

"  A  common  case,  but  a  rare  confession  ! " 

"Yes  ;  for  if  I  might  ask  for  the  youth  and  outward  advan- 
tages that  please  the  eye,  I  could  also  love  with  a  yet  deeper 
love  that  which  would  speak  to  my  imagination — Intellect,  Ge- 
nius, Fame  !  Ah,  these  have  an  immortal  youth  and  imperish- 
able beauty  of  their  own  !  " 

"  You  are  a  very  strange  girl," 

"  But  we  are  on  a  very  strange  subject — it  is  all  an  enigma! " 
said  Evelyn,  shaking  her  wise  little  head  with  a  pretty  gravity — 
half  mock,  half  real,  "  Ah,  if  Lord  Vargrave  should  love  you — 
and  you — oh,  you  would  love  him,  and  then  I  should  be  free, 
and  so  happy  !  " 

They  were  then  on  the  lawn  in  sight  of  the  cottage  windows, 
and  Lumley,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  newspaper,  which  had 
iust  arrived  and  been  seized  with  all  a  politician's  avidiiy,  saw 


ALICE  ;    Oft,  tHE   MYSTERIES.  35 

them  in  the  distance.  He  threw  down  the  paper,  mused  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  then  took  up  his  hat  and  joined  them  ;  but  before 
he  did  so  he  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass.  "  I  think  I  look 
young  enough  still,"  he  thought. 

'' Two  cherries  on  one  stalk,"  said  Lumley  gaily:  "by  the 
by,  it  is  not  a  complimentary  simile.  What  young  lady  would 
be  like  a  cherry  ? — such  an  uninteresting,  common,  charity-boy 
sort  of  fruit.  For  my  part,  I  always  associate  cherries  with  the 
image  of  a  young  gentleman  in  corduroys  and  a  skeleton  jacket, 
with  one  pocket  full  of  marbles,  and  the  other  full  of  worms  for 
fishing,  with  three  half-pence  in  the  left  paw,  and  two  cherries 
on  one  stalk  (Helena  and  Hermia)  in  the  right." 

"  How  droll  you  are!  "  said  Caroline,  laughing. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  and  don't  envy  your  discrimination — ■ 
*  melancholy  marks  me  for  its  own.'  You  ladies — ah,  yours  is 
the  life  for  gay  spirits  and  light  hearts  ;  to  us  are  left  business  and 
politics — law,  physic,  and  murder,  by  way  of  professions — abuse — 
nicknamed  fame  ; — and  the  privilege  of  seeing  how  universal  a 
thing — among  the  great  and  the  wealthy — is  that  pleasant  vice, 
beggary  ;  which  privilege  is  proudly  entitled,  '  patronage  and 
power.'  Are  we  the  things  to  be  gay — *  droll,'  as  you  say  ? — Oh, 
no,  all  our  spirits  are  forced,  believe  me.  Miss  Cameron,  did 
you  ever  know  that  wretched  species  of  hysterical  affection 
called  'forced  spirits?' — Never,  I  am  sure;  your  ingenuous 
smile,  your  laughing  eyes,  are  the  index  to  a  happy  and  a  san- 
guine heart." 

"  And  what  of  me  ? "  asked  Caroline  quickly,  and  with  a 
slight  blush. 

*'  You,  Miss  Merton  ? — ah,  I  have  not  yet  read  your  charac- 
ter— a  fair  page,  but  an  unknown  letter.  You,  however,  have 
seen  the  world,  and  know  that  we  must  occasionally  wear  a  mask." 
Lord  Vargrave  sighed  as  he  spoke,  and  relapsed  into  sudden 
silence  ;  then  looking  up  his  eyes  encountered  Caroline's, 
which  were  fixed  upon  him  ; — their  gaze  flattered  him  ;  Caro- 
line turned  away,  and  busied  herself  with  a  rose-bush.  Lum- 
ley gathered  one  of  the  flowers  and  presented  it  to  her.  Eve- 
lyn was  a  few  steps  in  advance. 

"  There  is  no  thorn  in  this  rose,"  said  he  :  "  may  the  offering 
be  an  omen — you  are  now  Evelyn's  friend — oh,  be  mine  ;  she 
is  to  be  your  guest.     Do  not  scorn  to  plead  for  me." 

"  Can  you  want  a  pleader  ?  "  said  Caroline,  with  a  slight  tre- 
mor in  her  voice. 

"  Charming  Miss  Merton,  love  is  diffident  and  fearful ;  but  it 
must  now  find  a  voice,  t»  which  may  Evelyn  benignly  listen. 


36  ALlCfi  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

What  I  leave  unsaid — would  that  my  new  friend's  eloquence 
could  supply." 

He  bowed  slightly  and  joined  Evelyn.  Caroline  understood 
the  hint  and  returned  alone  and  thoughtfully  to  the  house. 

"  Miss  Cameron — Evelyn — ah,  still  let  me  call  you  so — as  in 
the  happy  and  more  familiar  days  of  your  childhood — I  wish 
you  could  read  my  heart  at  this  moment  :  you  are  about  to 
leave  your  home — new  scenes  will  surround — new  faces  smile 
on  you  ; — dare  I  hope  that  I  may  still  be  remembered?" 

He  attempted  to  take  her  hand  as  he  spoke  ;  Evelyn  with- 
drew it  gently. 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  said  she,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  if  remem- 
brance were  all  that  you  asked  of  me — " 

"  It  is  all — favorable  remembrance — remembrance  of  the 
love  of  the  past — remembrance  of  the  bond  to  come." 

Evelyn  shivered.  "  It  is  better  to  speak  openly,"  said  she  : 
"let  me  throw  myself  on  your  generosity.  I  am  not  insensible 
to  your  brilliant  qualities — to  the  honor  of  your  attachment — 
but — but — as  the  time  approaches  in  which  you  will  call  for 
my  decision — let  me  now  say,  that  I  cannot  feel  for  you — ■ 
those — those  sentiments,  without  which  you  could  not  desire 
our  union — without  which  it  were  but  a  wrong  to  both  of  us  to 
form  it.  Nay,  listen  to  me — I  grieve  bitterly  at  the  tenor  of 
your  too-generous  uncle's  will — can  I  not  atone  to  you  ?  Will- 
ingly would  I  sacrifice  the  fortune  that,  indeed,  ought  to  be 
yours — accept  it,  and  remain  my  friend." 

"Cruel  Evelyn  !  and  can  you  suppose  that  it  is  your  fortune 
I  seek ? — it  isyourself.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that,  had  you 
no  dowry  but  your  hand  and  heart,  it  were  treasure  enough  to 
me.  You  think  you  cannot  love  me.  Evelyn,  you  do  not  yet 
know  yourself.  Alas  !  your  retirement  in  this  distant  village — 
my  own  unceasing  avocations,  which  chain  me,  like  a  slave,  to 
the  galley-oar  of  politics  and  power — have  kept  us  separate. 
You  do  not  know  me.  I  am  willing  to  hazard  the  experiment 
of  that  knowledge.  To  devote  my  life  to  you — to  make  you 
partaker  of  my  ambition,  my  career — to  raise  you  to  the  highest 
eminence  in  the  Matronage  of  England — to  transfer  pride  from 
myself  to  you — to  love,  and  to  honor,  and  to  prize  you — all  this 
will  be  my  boast ;  and  all  this  will  win  love  for  me  at  last. 
Fear  not,  Evelyn, — fear  not  for  your  happiness  ;  with  me  you 
shall  know  no  sorrow.  Affection  at  home — splendor  abroad — 
await  you,  I  have  passed  the  rough  and  arduous  part  of  my 
career — sunshine  lies  on  the  summit  to  which  I  climb.  No 
Station  in  England  is  too  high  for  me  to  aspire  to, — prospects, 


ALICE  ;    ok,  -THE  kYSTEklES.  37 

how  bright  with  you  !  how  dark  without  you  !  Ah,  Evelyn, 
be  this  hand  mine — the  heart  shall  follow  !  " 

Vargrave's  words  were  artful  and  eloquent;  the  words  were 
calculated  to  win  their  way — but  the  manner,  the  tone  of  voice, 
wanted  earnestness  and  truth.  This  was  his  defect — this  char- 
acterized all  his  attempts  to  seduce  or  to  lead  others  in  public 
or  in  private  life.  He  had  no  heart,  no  deep  passion,  in  what 
he  undertook.  He  could  impress  you  with  the  conviction  of 
his  ability,  and  leave  the  conviction  imperfect,  because  he  could 
not  convince  you  that  he  was  sincere.  That  best  gift  of  mental 
power — earnestness — was  wanting  to  him;  and  Lord  Vargrave's 
deficiency  of  heart  was  the  true  cause  why  he  was  not  a  great 
man.  Still,  Evelyn  was  affected  by  his  words;  she  suffered  the 
hand  he  now  once  more  took  to  remain  passively  in  his,  and 
said  timidly — 

"Why,  with  sentiments  so  generous  and  confiding — why  do 
you  love  me,  who  cannot  return  your  affection  worthily  ?  No, 
Lord  Vargrave  ;  there  are  many  who  must  see  you  with  juster 
eyes  than  mine — many  fairer,  and  even  wealthier.  Indeed — 
indeed,  it  cannot  be.  Do  not  be  offended,  but  think  that  the  for- 
tune left  to  me  was  on  one  condition  I  cannot,  ought  not  to  fulfil. 
Failing  that  condition,  in  equity  and  honor  it  reverts  to  you." 

"Talk  not  thus,  I  implore  you,  Evelyn:  do  not  imagine  me 
the  worldly  calculator  that  my  enemies  deem  me.  But  to 
remove  at  once  from  your  mind  the  possibility  of  such  a  com- 
promise between  your  honor  and  repugnance — (repugnance  ! 
have  I  lived  to  say  that  word  ?)  know  that  your  fortune  is  not. 
at  your  own  disposal.  Save  the  small  forfeit  that  awaits  your 
non-compliance  with  my  uncle's  dying  prayer,  the  whole  is  set- 
tled peremptorily  on  yourself  and  your  children  ;  it  is  entailed 
— you  cannot  alienate  it.  Thus,  then,  your  generosity  can 
never  be  evinced  but  to  him  on  whom  you  bestow  your  hand. 
Ah  !  let  me  recall  that  melancholy  scene.  Your  benefactor 
on  his  death-bed — your  mother  kneeling  by  his  side — yourhand 
clasped  in  mine — and  those  lips,  with  their  latest  breath,  utter- 
ing at  once  a  blessing  and  a  command  ! " 

"Ah,  cease — cease,  my  lord  !  "  said  Evelyn,  sobbing. 

"  No;  bid  me  not  cease  before  you  tell  me  you  will  be 
mine.  Beloved  Evelyn !  I  may  hope — you  will  not  resolve 
against  me." 

"No,"  said  Evelyn,  raising  her  eyes  and  struggling  for  com- 
posure; "I  feel  too  well  what  should  be  my  duty  ;  I  will  en- 
deavor to  perform  it.  Ask  me  no  more  now;  I  will  struggle  to 
answer  you  as  you  wish  hereafter." 


38  ALlCfi  I    Ok,  THE  JtVStERlEg. 

Lord  Vargrave,  resolved  to  push  to  the  utmost  the  advantage 
he  had  gained,  was  about  to  reply — when  he  heard  a  step  be- 
hind him ;  and  turning  round  quickly  and  discomposed,  be- 
held a  venerable  form  approaching  them.  The  occasion  was 
lost  :  Evelyn  also  turned;  and  seeing  who  was  the  intruder 
sprang  towards  him  almost  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

The  new-comer  was  a  man  who  had  passed  his  seventieth  year; 
but  his  old  age  was  green,  his  step  light,  and  on  his  healthful 
and  benignant  countenance  time  had  left  but  few  furrows.  He 
was  clothed  in  black;  and  his  locks  which  were  white  as  snow, 
escaped  from  the  broad  hat  and  almost  touched  his'  shoulders. 

The  old  man  smiled  upon  Evelyn,  and  kissed  her  forehead 
fondly.  He  then  turned  to  Lord  Vargrave,  who,  recovering 
his  customary  self-possession,  advanced  to  meet  him  with  ex- 
tended hand. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Aubrey,  this  is  a  welcome  surprise.  I  heard 
you  were  not  at  the  vicarage,  or  I  would  have  called  on  you." 

"Your  lordship  honors  me,"  replied  the  curate.  "For  the 
first  time  in  thirty  years  I  have  been  thus  long  absent  from  my 
cure  ;  but  I  am  now  returned,  I  hope,  to  end  my  days  among 
my  flock." 

"And  what,"  asked  Vargrave — "  what — if  the  question  be  not 
presumptuous — occasioned  your  unwilling  absence  ? " 

"  My  lord,"  replied  the  old  man,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "  anew 
vicar  has  been  appointed.  I  went  to  him,  to  proffer  an  humble 
prayer  that  I  might  remain  amongst  those  wliom  I  regarded  as 
my  children.  I  have  buried  one  generation — I  have  mar- 
ried another — I  have  baptized  a  third." 

"You  should  have  had  the  vicarage  itself — you  should  be 
better  provided  for,  ray  dear  Mr.  Aubrey;  I  will  speak  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor," 

Five  times  before  had  Lord  Vargrave  uttered  the  same  prom- 
ise,— and  the  curate  smiled  to  hear  the  familiar  words. 

"  The  vicarage,  my  lord,  is  a  family  living,  and  is  now  vested 
in  a  young  man  who  requires  wealth  more  than  I  do.  He  has 
been  kind  to  me,  and  re-established  me  among  my  flock;  I 
would  not  leave  them  for  a  bishopric.  My  child,"  continued 
the  curate,  addressing  Evelyn  with  great  affection,  "  you  are 
surely  unwell — you  are  paler  than  when  I  left  you." 

Evelyn  clung  fondly  to  his  arm,  and  smiled — her  old  gay 
smile — as  she  replied  to  him.  They  took  the  way  towards  the 
house. 

The  curate  remained  with  them  for  an  hour.  There  was  a 
mingled  sweetness  and  dignity  in  his  manner  which  had  in  it 


ALICK  ;     OR,   THE    MYSTERIES.  39 

something  of  the  primitive  character  we  poetically  ascribe  to 
the  pastors  of  the  church.  Lady  Vargrave  seemed  to  vie  with 
Evelyn  which  should  love  him  the  most.  When  he  retired  to 
his  home,  which  was  not  many  yards  distant  from  the  cottage, 
Evelyn,  pleading  a  headache,  sought  her  chamber,  and  Lumley, 
to  soothe  his  mortification,  turned  to  Caroline  who  had  seated 
herself  by  his  side.  Her  conversation  amused  him,  and  her 
evident  admiration  flattered.  While  Lady  Vargrave  absented 
herself  in  motherly  anxiety  to  attend  on  Evelyn — while  Mrs. 
Leslie  was  occupied  at  her  frame — and  Mrs.  Merton  looked  on 
and  talked  indolently  to  the  old  lady  of  rheumatism  and  ser- 
mons, of  children's  complaints  and  servants'  misdemeanors — 
the  conversation  between  Lord  Vargrave  and  Caroline,  at  first 
gay  and  animated,  grew  gradually  more  sentimental  and  sub- 
dued: their  voices  took  a  lower  tone,  and  Caroline  sometimes 
turned  away  her  head  and  blushed. 


CHAPTER  XL 

*  There  stands  the  Messenger  of  Truth — there  stands 
The  Legate  of  the  skies." — Cowper. 

From  that  night  Lumley  found  no  opportunity  for  private 
conversation  with  Evelyn;  she  evidently  shunned  to  meet  with 
him  alone;  she  was  ever  with  her  mother,  or  Mrs.  Leslie,  or  the 
good  curate,  who  spent  much  of  his  time  at  the  cottage;  for  the 
old  man  had  neither  wife  nor  children — he  was  alone  at  home — 
he  had  learned  to  make  his  home  with  the  widow  and  her 
daughter.  With  them  he  was  an  object  of  the  tenderest  affec- 
tion— of  the  deepest  veneration.  Their  love  delighted  him, 
and  he  returned  it  with  the  fondness  of  a  parent  and  the  be- 
nevolence of  a  pastor.  He  was  a  rare  character,  that  village 
priest ! 

Born  of  hutnble  parentage,  Edward  Aubrey  had  early  dis- 
played abilities  which  attracted  the  notice  of  a  wealthy  pro- 
prietor, who  was  not  displeased  to  affect  the  patron.  Young 
Aubrey  was  sent  to  school,  and  thence  to  college  as  a  sizar:  he 
obtained  several  prizes,  and  took  a  high  degree.  Aubrey  was 
not  without  the  ainbition  and  the  passions  of  youth  :  he  went  into 
the  world,  ardent,  inexperienced,  and  without  a  guide.  He  drew 
back  before  errors  grew  into  crimes,  or  folly  became  a  habit. 
It  was  nature  and  affection  that  reclaimed  and  saved  him  from 
either  alternative — fame  or  ruin.     His  widpw?4  mother  was 


40  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

suddenly  stricken  with  disease.  Blind  and  bedridden,  her 
whole  dependence  was  on  her  only  son.  This  affliction  called 
forth  a  new  character  in  Edward  Aubrey.  This  mother  had 
stripped  herself  of  so  many  comforts  to  provide  for  him — he 
devoted  his  youth  to  her  in  return.  She  was  now  old  and  im- 
becile. With  the  mingled  selfishness  and  sentiment  of  age  she 
would  not  come  to  London — she  would  not  move  from  the 
village  where  her  husband  lay  buried — where  her  youth  had 
been  spent.  In  this  village  the  able  and  ambitious  young  man 
buried  his  hopes  and  his  talents ;  by  degrees  the  quiet  and 
tranquillity  of  the  country  life  became  dear  to  him.  As  steps 
in  a  ladder,  so  piety  leads  to  piety,  and  religion  grew  to  him  a 
habit.  He  took  orders  and  entered  the  church.  A  disappoint- 
ment in  love  ensued — it  left  on  his  mind  and  heart  a  sober  and 
resigned  melancholy,  which  at  length  mellowed  into  content. 
His  profession  and  its  sweet  duties  became  more  and  more 
dear  to  him  ;  in  the  hopes  of  the  next  world  he  forgot  the  am- 
bition of  the  present.     He  did  not  seek  to  shine — 

"  More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise." 

His  own  birth  made  the  poor  his  brothers,  and  their  dispositions 
and  wants  familiar  to  him.  His  own  early  errors  made  him 
tolerant  to  the  faults  of  others  ;  few  men  are  charitable  who 
remember  not  that  they  have  sinned.  In  our  faults  lie  the 
germs  of  virtues.  Thus  gradually  and  serenely  had  worn  away 
his  life — obscure,  but  useful — calm,  but  active — a  man  whom 
"  the  great  prizes  "  of  the  church  might  have  rendered  an 
ambitious  schemer — to  whom  a  modest  confidence  gave  the 
true  pastoral  power — to  conquer  the  world  within  himself,  and 
to  sympathize  with  the  wants  of  others.  Yes,  he  was  a  rare 
character,  that  village  priest  ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Tout  notre  raisonnement  se  reduit  a  ceder  au  sentiment."* — Pascal. 

Lord  Vargrave,  who  had  no  desire  to  remain  alone  with 
the  widow  when  the  guests  were  gone,  arranged  his  departure 
for  the  same  day  as  that  fixed  for  Mrs.  Merton's  ;  and  as  their 
road  lay  together  for  several  miles,  it  was  settled  that  they 
should  all  dine  at  whence  Lord  Vargrave  would  pro- 
ceed to  London.     Failing  to  procure  a  second  chance-intervie\y 

♦  AW. our  ^reaspning  reduces  itself  to  yielding  to  §entim?nt, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  4I 

with  Evelyn,  and  afraid  to  demand  a  formal  one — for  he  felt 
the  insecurity  of  the  ground  he  stood  on — Lord  Vargrave,  irri- 
tated and  somewhat  mortified,  sought,  as  was  his  habit,  what- 
ever amusement  was  in  his  reach.  In  the  conversation  of  Caro- 
line Merton — shrewd,  worldly,  and  ambitious — he  found  the 
sort  of  plaything  that  he  desired.  They  were  thrown  much 
together;  but  to  Vargrave,  at  least,  there  appeared  no  danger 
in  the  intercourse;  and,  perhaps,  his  chief  object  was  to  pique 
Evelyn,  as  well  as  to  gratify  his  own  spleen. 

It  was  the  evening  before  Evelyn's  departure;  the  little  party 
had  been  for  the  last  hour  dispersed;  Mrs.  Merton  was  in  her 
own  room,  making  to  herself  gratuitous  and  unnecessary  occu- 
pation in  seeing  her  wovadin  pack  up.  It  was  just  the  kind  of 
task  that  delighted  her.  To  sit  in  a  large  chair,  and  see  some- 
body else  at  work — to  say,  languidly,  "  Don't  crumple  that  scarf, 
Jane — and  where  shall  we  put  Miss  Caroline's  blue  bonnet?  " — • 
gave  her  a  very  comfortable  notion  of  her  own  importance  and 
habits  of  business — a  sort  of  title  to  be  the  superintendent  of  a 
family  and  the  wife  of  a  rector.  Caroline  had  disappeared — so 
had  Lord  Vargrave ;  but  the  first  was  supposed  to  be  with 
Evelyn;  the  second,  employed  in  writing  letters;  at  least,  it  was 
so  when  they  had  been  last  observed.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  alone 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  absorbed  in  anxious  and  benevolent 
thoughts  on  the  critical  situation  of  her  young  favorite,  about 
to  enter  an  age  and  a  world  the  perils  of  which  Mrs.  Leslie  had 
not  forgotten. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Evelyn,  forgetful  of  Lord  Vargrave 
and  his  suit — of  every  one — of  every  thing — but  the  grief  of  the 
approaching  departure — found  herself  alone  in  a  little  arbor, 
that  had  been  built  upon  the  cliff  to  command  the  view  of  the 
sea  below.  That  day  she  had  been  restless,  perturbed  ;  she 
had  visited  every  spot  consecrated  by  youthful  recollections  ; 
she  had  clung  with  fond  regret  to  everyplace  in  which  she  had 
held  sweet  converse  with  her  mother.  Of  a  disposition  singu- 
larly warm  and  affectionate,  she  had  often  in  her  secret  heart 
pined  for  a  more  yearning  and  enthusiastic  love  than  it  seemed 
in  the  subdued  nature  of  Lady  Vargrave  to  bestow.  In  the 
affection  of  the  latter,  gentle  and  never  fluctuating  as  it  was, 
there  seemed  to  her  a  something  wanting,  which  she  could  not 
define.  She  had  watched  that  beloved  face  all  the  morning. 
She  had  hoped  to  see  the  tender  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and  hear 
the  meek  voice  exclaim,  "  I  cannot  part  with  my  child  !  "  All 
the  gay  pictures  which  the  light-hearted  Caroline  drew  of  the 
SQ^n^s  §he  was  to  enter  had  vanished  ^way — pow  that  the  hour 


42  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSrERIES. 

approached  when  her  mother  was  to  be  left  alone.  Why  was 
she  to  go  ?     It  seemed  to  her  an  unnecessary  cruelty. 

As  she  thus  sate,  she  did  not  observe  tliat  Mr.  Aubrey,  who 
had  seen  her  at  a  distance,  was  now  bending  his  way  to  her ; 
and  not  till  he  had  entered  the  arbor  and  taken  her  hand  did 
she  waken  from  those  reveries  in  which  youth,  the  Dreamer 
and  the  Desirer,  so  morbidly  indulges. 

"Tears,  my  child  !"  said  the  curate.  "Nay,  be  not  ashamed 
of  them  ;  they  become  you  in  this  hour.  How  we  shall  miss 
you  ! — and  you,  too,  will  not  forget  us  ! " 

"  Forget  you  !  Ah  no,  indeed.  But  why  should  I  leave  you? 
Why  will  you  not  speak  to  my  mother — implore  her  to  let  me 
remain  ?  We  were  so  happy  till  these  strangers  came.  We  did 
not  think  there  was  any  other  world — here  there  is  world  enough 
for  me !" 

"My  poor  Evelyn,"  said  Mr.  Aubrey  gently,  "  I  have  spoken 
to  your  mother,  and  to  Mrs.  Leslie  ;  they  have  confided  to  me 
all  the  reasons  for  your  departure,  and  I  cannot  but  subscribe 
to  their  justice.  You  do  not  want  many  months  of  the  age 
when  you  will  be  called  upon  to  decide  whether  Lord  Vargrave 
shall  be  your  husband.  Your  mother  shrinks  from  the  respon- 
sibility of  influencing  your  decision  ;  and  here,  my  child,  in- 
experienced and  having  seen  so  little  of  others,  how  can  you 
know  your  own  heart  ?  " 

"  But,  oh,  Mr.  Aubrey,"  said  Evelyn,  with  an  earnestness 
that  overcame  embarrassment,  "have  I  a  choice  left  to  me? 
Can  I  be  ungrateful — disobedient  to  him  who  was  a  father  to 
me  ?  Ought  I  not  to  sacrifice  my  own  happiness  ?  And  how 
willingly  would  I  do  so,  if  my  mother  would  smile  on  me  ap- 
provingly ! " 

"My  child,"  said  the  curate  gravely,  "an  old  man  is  a  bad 
judge  of  the  affairs  of  youth  ;  yet  in  this  matter  I  think  your 
duty  plain.  Do  not  resolutely  set  yourself  against  Lord  Var- 
grave's  claim — do  not  persuade  yourself  that  you  must  be  un- 
happy in  a  union  with  him.  Compose  your  mind — think  seri- 
ously upon  the  choice  before  you — refuse  all  decision  at  the 
present  moment — wait  until  the  appointed  time  arrives,  or  at 
least  more  nearly  approaches.  Meanwhile,  I  understand  that 
Lord  Vargrave  is  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  Mrs.  Merton's — 
there  you  will  see  him  with  others — his  character  will  show 
itself — study  his  principles — his  disposition — examine  whether 
he  is  one  whom  you  can  esteem  and  render  happy; — there  may 
be  a  love  without  enthusiasm — and  yet  sufficient  for  domestic 
felicity,  and  for  the  employment  of  the  affections.    You  will 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  43 

insensibly,  too,  learn  from  others  parts  of  his  character  which  he 
does  not  exhibit  to  us.  If  the  result  of  time  and  examination 
be,  that  you  can  cheerfully  obey  the  late  lord's  dying  wish — 
unquestionably  it  will  be  the  happier  decision.  If  not — if  you 
still  shrink  from  vows  at  which  your  heart  now  rebels — as  un- 
questionably you  may,  with  an  acquitted  conscience,  become 
free.  The  best  of  us  are  imperfect  judges  of  the  happiness  of 
others.  In  the  woe  or  weal  of  a  whole  life  we  must  decide  for 
ourselves.  Your  benefactor  could  not  mean  you  to  be  wretched : 
and  if  he  now,  with  eyes  purified  from  all  worldly  mists,  look 
down  upon  you,  his  spirit  will  approve  your  choice.  For  when 
we  quit  the  world  all  worldly  ambition  dies  with  us.  What 
now  to  the  immortal  soul  can  be  the  title  and  the  rank  which 
on  earth,  with  the  desires  of  earth,  your  benefactor  hoped  to 
secure  to  his  adopted  child?  This  is  my  advice.  Look  on  the 
bright  side  of  things,  and  wait  calmly  for  the  hour  when  Lord 
Vargrave  can  demand  your  decision." 

The  words  of  the  priest,  which  well  defined  her  duty,  inex- 
pressibly soothed  and  comforted  Evelyn  ;  and  the  advice  upon 
other  and  higher  matters  which  the  good  man  pressed  upon  a 
mind  so  softened  at  that  hour  to  receive  religious  impressions, 
was  received  with  gratitude  and  respect.  Subsequently  their 
conversation  fell  upon  Lady  Vargrave — a  theme  dear  to  both 
of  them.  The  old  man  was  greatly  touched  by  the  poor  girl's 
unselfish  anxiety  for  her  mother's  comfort — by  her  fears  that 
she  might  be  missed  in  those  little  attentions  which  filial  love 
alone  can  render  ;  he  was  almost  yet  more  touched  when,  with 
a  less  disinterested  feeling,  Evelyn  added  mournfully : 

"  Yet  why,  after  allj  should  I  fancy  she  will  so  miss  me  ? 
Ah,  though  I  will  not  dare  complain  of  it,  I  feel  still  that  she 
does  not  love  me  as  I  love  her." 

"  Evelyn,"  said  the  curate  with  mild  reproach,  "  have  I  not 
said  that  your  mother  has  known  sorrow  ?  and  though  sorrow 
does  not  annihilate  affection,  it  subdues  its  expression,  and 
moderates  its  outward  signs." 

Evelyn  sighed,  and  said  no  more. 

As  the  good  old  man  and  his  young  friend  returned  to  the 
cottage,  Lord  Vargrave  and  Caroline  approached  them,  emerg- 
ing from  an  opposite  part  of  the  grounds.  The  former  hastened 
to  Evelyn  with  his  usual  gaiety  and  frank  address  :  and  there 
was  so  much  charm  in  the  manner  of  a  man  whom  apparently 
the  world  and  its  cares  had  never  rendered  artificial  or  reserved, 
that  the  curate  himself  was  impressed  by  it.  He  thought  that 
Evelyn  might  be  happy  with  one  amiable  enough  for  a  com- 


44  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

panion  and  wise  enough  for  a  guide.  But  old  as  he  was  he  had 
loved,  and  he  knew  that  there  are  instincts  in  the  heart  which 
defy  all  our  calculations. 

While  Lumley  was  conversing  the  little  gate  that  made  the 
communication  between  the  gardens  and  the  neighboring 
churchyard,  through  which  was  the  nearest  access  to  the  village, 
creaked  on  its  hinges,  and  the  quiet  and  solitary  figure  of  Lady 
Vargrave  threw  its  shadow  over  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet, 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain — 
And  listen  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again." — Wordsworth. 

It  was  past  midnight — hostess  and  guests  had  retired  to  re- 
pose— when  Lady  Vargrave's  door  opened  gently.  The  lady 
herself  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  :  the  moonlight  came 
through  the  half-drawn  curtains  of  the  casement ;  and  by  its 
ray  her  pale,  calm  features  looked  paler  and  yet  more  hushed. 

Evelyn,  for  she  was  the  intruder,  paused  at  the  threshold 
till  her  mother  rose  from  her  devotions,  and  then  she  threw 
herself  on  Lady  Vargrave's  breast,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break — hers  were  the  wild,  generous,  irresistible  emotions 
of  youth.  Lady  Vargrave,  perhaps,  had  known  them  once  ;  at 
least,  she  could  sympathize  with  them  now. 

She  strained  her  child  to  her  bosom — she  stroked  back  her 
hair,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  and  spoke  to  her  soothingly. 

"  Mother,"  sobbed  Evelyn,  "  I  could  not  sleep — I  could  not 
rest.  Bless  me  again — kiss  me  again  ; — tell  me  that  you  love 
me — you  cannot  love  me  as  I  do  you — but  tell  me  that  I  am 
dear  to  you — tell  me  you  will  regret  me — but  not  too  much — 
tell  me "     Here  Evelyn  paused,  and  could  say  no  more. 

"  My  best,  my  kindest  Evelyn,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  "there 
is  nothing  on  earth  I  love  like  you.  Do  not  fancy  I  am  un- 
grateful." 

"Why  do  you  say  ungrateful  ? — your  own  child — your  only 
child  ! " — and  Evelyn  covered  her  mother's  face  and  hands  with 
passionate  tears  and  kisses. 

At  that  moment  certain  it  is,  that  Lady  Vargrave's  heart  re- 
proached her  with  not  having,  indeed,  loved  this  sweet  girl  as 
she  deserved.  True,  no  mother  was  more  mild,  more  atten- 
tive, more  fostering,  more  anxious  for  a  daughter's  welfare ; — 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  45 

but  Evelyn  was  riglit ! — the  gushing  fondness,  the  mysterious 
entering  into  every  subtle  thought  and  feeling,  which  should 
have  characterized  the  love  of  such  a  mother  to  such  a  child, 
had  been  to  outward  appearance  wanting.  Even  in  this  pres- 
ent parting  there  had  been  a  prudence,  an  exercise  of  reason- 
ing, that  savored  more  of  duty  than  love.  Lady  Vargrave  felt 
all  this  with  remorse — she  gave  way  to  emotions  new  to  her — 
at  least  to  exhibit — she  wept  with  Evelyn,  and  returned  her 
caresses  with  almost  equal  fervor.  Perhaps,  too,  she  thought 
at  that  moment  of  what  love  that  warm  nature  was  susceptible; 
and  she  trembled  for  her  future  fate.  It  was  as  a  full  recon- 
ciliation— that  mournful  hour — between  feelings  on  either  side, 
which  something  mysterious  seemed  to  have  checked  before  : 
— and  that  last  night  the  mother  and  child  did  not  separate — 
the  same  couch  contained  them  ;  and  when  worn  out  with 
some  emotions  which  she  could  not  reveal  Lady  Vargrave  fell 
into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  Evelyn's  arm  was  round  her,  and 
Evelyn's  eyes  watched  her  with  pious  and  anxious  love  as  the 
gray  morning  dawned. 

She  left  her  mother  still  sleeping  when  the  sun  rose,  and 
went  silently  down  into  the  dear  room  below,  and  again  busied 
herself  in  a  thousand  little  provident  cares,  which  she  wondered 
she  had  forgot  before. 

The  carriages  were  at  the  door  before  the  party  had  assem- 
bled at  the  melancholy  breakfast-table.  Lord  Vargrave  was 
the  last  to  appear. 

"  I  have  been  like  all  cowards,"  said  he,  seating  himself ; — 
"anxious  to  defer  an  evil  as  long  as  possible  ;  a  bad  policy,  for 
it  increases  the  worst  of  all  pains — that  of  suspense." 

Mrs.  Merton  had  undertaken  the  duties  that  appertain  to  the 
"hissing  urn."  "You  prefer  coffee,  Lord  Vargrave  ? — Caro- 
line, my  dear " 

Caroline  passed  the  cup  to  Lord  Vargrave,  who  looked  at 
her  hand  as  he  took  it — there  was  a  ring  on  one  of  those  slen- 
der fingers  never  observed  there  before.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
Caroline  colored.  Lord  Vargrave  turned  to  Evelyn,  who,  pale 
as  death,  but  tearless  and  speechless,  sate  beside  her  mother  ; 
he  attempted  in  vain  to  draw  her  into  conversation.  Evelyn, 
who  desired  to  restrain  her  feelings,  would  not  trust  herself  to 
speak. 

Mrs.  Merton,  ever  undisturbed  and  placid,  continued  to  talk 
on  :  to  offer  congratulations  on  the  weather — it  was  such  a 
lovely  day — and  they  should  be  off  so  early — it  would  be  so 
well  arranged — they  should  be  in  such  good  time  to  dine  at 


46  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES/ 

and  then  go  three  stages  after  dinner — the  moon  would 


be  up. 

"  But,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  "as  I  am  to  go  with  you  as  far  as 

■ ,  where  our  roads  separate,  I  hope  I  am  not  condemned  to 

go  alone,  with  my  red  box,  two  old  newspapers,  and  the  blue 
devils.     Have  pity  on  me." 

"Perhaps  you  will  take  grandmamma,  then?"  whispered 
Caroline  archly. 

Lumley  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  replied  in  the  same  tone, 
"  Yes,  provided  you  keep  to  the  proverb,  ''Les  extremes  se  tou- 
chent,^  and  the  lovely  grandchild  accompany  the  venerable 
grandmamma." 

"What  would  Evelyn  say?"  retorted  Caroline. 

Lumley  sighed  and  made  no  answer. 

Mrs.  Merton,  who  had  hung  fire  while  her  daughter  was 
carrying  on  this  "  aside,"  now  put  in  : 

"Suppose  I  and  Caroline  take  your  britzka,  and  you  go  in 
our  old  coach  with  Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Leslie?" 

Lumley  looked  delightedly  at  the  speaker  and  then  glanced 
at  Evelyn  ;  but  Mrs.  Leslie  said  very  gravely,  "  No,  we  shall 
feel  too  much  in  leaving  this  dear  place  to  be  gay  companions 
for  Lord  Vargrave.  We  shall  all  meet  at  dinner; — or,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  "if  this  be  uncourteous  to  Lord  Vargrave, 
suppose  Evelyn  and  myself  take  his  carriage  and  he  accompa- 
nies you?" 

"Agreed,"  said  Mrs.  Merton  quietly;  "and  now  I  will  just 
go  and  see  about  the  strawberry-plants  and  slips — it  was  so 
kind  in  you,  dear  Lady  Vargrave,  to  think  of  them." 

An  hour  had  elapsed — and  Evelyn  was  gone !  She  had  left 
her  maiden  home — she  had  wept  her  last  farewell  on  her 
mother's  bosom — the  sound  of  the  carriage-wheels  had  died 
away  ;  but  still  Lady  Vargrave  lingered  on  the  threshold — still 
she  gazed  on  the  spot  where  the  last  glimpse  of  Evelyn  had 
been  caught.  A  sense  of  dreariness  and  solitude  passed  into 
her  soul  : — the  very  sunlight — the  spring — the  songs  of  the 
birds — made  loneliness  more  desolate. 

Mechanically,  at  last,  she  moved  away  and  with  slow  steps 
and  downcast  eyes  passed  through  the  favorite  walk  that  led 
into  the  quiet  burial-ground.  The  gate  closed  upon  her — and 
now  the  lawn — the  gardens — the  haunts  of  Evelyn — were  soli- 
tary as  the  desert  itself; — but  the  daisy  opened  to  the  sun,  and 
the  bee  murmured  along  the  blossoms — not  the  less  blithely 
for  the  absence  of  all  human  life.  In  the  bosom  of  Nature 
there  beats  no  heart  for  man  ! 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  47 

BOOK   II. 


— ero^  tjWe,  ireptTrMfievuv  kvtavrStv 
T^  ol  eneiOUiaaTO  deal,  oik6v6e  vieadai, 
Eif  'IdaK/jv,  ov6'  Ivda  ne(l>v}'fj.ivoc  tjev  aeBTuuv, 

HoM.  Of/.,  lib.  i.,1.  16. 

The  hour  arrived — years  having  rolled  away — 
When  his  return  the  Gods  no  more  delay. 
Lo  !  Ithaca  the  Fates  award  ;  and  there 
New  trials  meet  the  Wanderer. 

CHAPTER   I. 

''  There  is  continual  spring  and  harvest  here — 
Continual,  both  meeting  at  one  time  : 
For  both  the  boughs  do  laughing  blossoms  bear, 
And  with  fresh  colors  deck  the  wanton  prime 
And  eke  at  once  the  heavy  trees  they  climb. 
Which  seem  to  labor  under  their  fruits'  load." 

Spenser  :    The  Garden  of  Adoniy, 

*  *  *  "Vis  boni 

In  ipsa  inesset  forma." — Terent, 

Beauty,  thou  art  twice  blessed ;  thou  blessest  the  gazer  and 
the  possessor ;  often,  at  once  the  effect  and  the  cause  of  good- 
ness !  A  sweet  disposition — a  lovely  soul — an  affectionate 
nature — will  speak  in  the  eyes — the  lips — the  brow — and  be- 
come the  cause  of  beauty.  On  the  other  hand,  they  who  have 
a  gift  that  commands  love,  a  key  that  opens  all  hearts,  are  ordi- 
narily inclined  to  look  with  happy  eyes  upon  the  world — to  be 
cheerful  and  serene — to  hope  and  to  confide.  There  is  more 
wisdom  than  the  vulgar  dream  of  in  our  admiration  of  a  fair 
face. 

Evelyn  Cameron  was  beautiful : — a  beauty  that  came  from 
the  heart,  and  went  to  the  heart — a  beauty,  the  very  spirit  of 
which  was  love  !  Love  smiled  on  her  dimpled  lips — it  reposed 
on  her  open  brow — it  played  in  the  profuse  and  careless  ringlets 
of  darkest  yet  sunniest  auburn,  which  a  breeze  could  lift  from 
her  delicate  and  virgin  cheek.  Love,  in  all  its  tenderness,  in 
all  its  kindness,  its  unsuspecting  truth,  Love  colored  every 
thought ;  murmured  in  her  low  melodious  voice ; — in  all  its 
symmetry  and  glorious  womanhood.  Love  swelled  the  swan-like 
neck,  and  moulded  the  rounded  limb. 

*  Even  in  beauty,  there  exists  the  power  of  virtue. 


48  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

She  was  just  the  kind  of  person  that  takes  the  judgment  by 
storm :  whether  gay  or  grave,  there  was  so  charming  and  irre- 
sistible a  grace  about  her.  She  seemed  born,  not  only  to  capti- 
vate the  giddy,  but  to  turn  the  heads  of  the  sage.  Roxalana  was 
nothing  to  her.  How,  in  the  obscure  hamlet  of  Brook-Green, 
she  had  learned  all  the  arts  of  pleasing,  it  it  impossible  to  say. 
In  her  arch  smile,  the  pretty  toss  of  her  head,  the  half  shyness, 
half  freedom  of  her  winning  ways,  it  was  as  if  Nature  had  made 
her  to  delight  one  heart,  and  torment  all  others. 

Without  being  learned  the  mind  of  Evelyn  was  cultivated 
and  well  informed.  Her  heart,  perhaps,  helped  to  instruct 
her  understanding  ;  for  by  a  kind  of  intuition  she  could  appre- 
ciate all  that  was  beautiful  and  elevated.  Her  unvitiated  and 
guileless  taste  had  a  logic  of  its  own  :  no  schoolman  had  ever  a 
quicker  penetration  into  truth — no  critic  ever  more  readily  de- 
tected the  meretricious  and  the  false.  The  book  that  Evelyn 
could  admire  was  sure  to  be  stamped  with  the  impress  of  the 
noble,  the  lovely,  or  the  true  ! 

But  Evelyn  had  faults — the  faults  of  her  age  ;  or,  rather,  she 
had  tendencies  that  might  conduce  to  error.  She  was  of  so 
generous  a  nature,  that  the  very  thought  of  sacrificing  herself 
for  another  had  a  charm.  She  ever  acted  from  impulse — im- 
pulses pure  and  good,  but  often  rash  and  imprudent.  She  was 
yielding  to  weakness,  persuaded  into  anything — so  sensitive, 
that  even  a  cold  look  from  one  moderately  liked  cut  her  to  the 
heart ;  and  by  the  sympathy  that  accompanies  sensitiveness,  no 
pain  to  her  was  so  great  as  the  thought  of  giving  pain  to  another. 
Hence  it  was  that  Vargrave  might  form  reasonable  hopes  of  his 
ultimate  success.  It  was  a  dangerous  constitution  for  happiness  ! 
How  many  chances  must  combine  to  preserve  to  the  mid-day  of 
characters  like  this,  the  sunshine  of  their  dawn  !  The  butterfly, 
that  seems  the  child  of  the  summer  and  the  flowers,  what  wind 
will  not  chill  its  mirth — what  touch  will  not  brush  away  its  hues? 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  These,  on  a  general  survey,  are  the  modes 
Of  public  oratory,  which  agree 
With  no  unletter'd  audience." — PoLWHELE. 

Mrs.  Leslie  had  returned  from  her  visit  to  the  Rectory  to 
her  own  home,  and  Evelyn  had  now  been  some  weeks  at  Mrs. 
Merton's.  As  was  natural,  she  had  grown  in  some  measure 
reconciled  and  resigned  to  her  change  of  abode.     In  fact,  no 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  4$ 

sooner  did  she  pass  Mrs.  Merton's  threshold,  than  for  the  first 
time  she  was  made  aware  of  her  consequence  in  life. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Merton  was  a  man  of  the  nicest  perception  in 
all  things  appertaining  to  worldly  consideration  :  the  second  son 
of  a  very  wealthy  baronet  (who  was  the  first  commoner  of  his 
county),  and  of  the  daughter  of  a  rich  and  highly-descended 
peer,  Mr.  Merton  had  been  brought  near  enough  to  rank  and 
power  to  appreciate  all  their  advantages.  In  early  life  he  had 
been  something  of  a  "tuft-hunter ;"  but  as  his  understanding 
was  good  and  his  passions  not  very  strong,  he  had  soon  per- 
ceived that  that  vessel  of  clay,  a  young  man  with  a  moderate 
fortune,  cannot  long  sail  down  the  same  stream  with  the  metal 
vessels  of  rich  earls  and  extravagant  dandies.  Besides,  he  was 
destined  for  the  church, — because  there  was  one  of  the  finest 
livings  in  England  in  the  family.  He,  therefore,  took  orders 
at  six-and-twenty ;  married  Mrs.  Leslie's  daughter,  who  had 
thirty  thousand  pounds  ;  and  settled  at  the  Rectory  of  Merton, 
within  a  mile  of  the  family  seat.  He  became  a  very  respect- 
able and  extremely  popular  man.  He  was  singularly  hospitable, 
and  built  a  new  wing — containing  a  large  dining-room,  and  six 
capital  bedrooms — to  the  rectory,  which  had  now  much  more 
the  appearance  of  a  country  villa  than  a  country  parsonage. 
His  brother  succeeding  to  the  estates  and  residing  chiefly  in  the 
neighborhood,  became,  like  his  father  before  him,  member  for 
the  county,  and  was  one  of  the  country  gentlemen  most  looked 
up  to  in  the  House  of  Commons.  A  sensible  and  frequent, 
though  uncommonly  prosy  speaker,  singularly  independent  (for 
he  had  a  clear  fourteen  thousand  pounds  a-year  and  did  not  desire 
office),  and  valuing  himself  on  not  being  a  parly  man,  so  that 
his  vote  on  critical  questions  was  often  a  matter  of  great  doubt, 
and,  therefore,  of  great  moment — Sir  John  Merton  gave  con- 
siderable importance  to  the  Reverend  Charles  Merton.  The 
latter  kept  up  all  the  more  select  of  his  old  London  acquain- 
tances ;  and  few  country  houses,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year, 
were  filled  more  aristocratically  than  the  pleasant  rectory-house. 
Mr.  Merton,  indeed,  contrived  to  make  the  Hall  a  reservoir  for 
the  Parsonage,  and  periodically  drafted  off  \.\\q  elite  oi  the  visitors 
at  the  former,  to  spend  a  few  days  at  the  latter.  This  was  the 
more  easily  done,  as  his  brother  was  a  widower,  and  his  conver- 
sation was  all  of  one  sort — the  state  of  the  nation,  and  the 
agricultural  interest.  Mr.  Merton  was  upon  very  friendly  terms 
with  his  brother — looked  after  the  property  in  the  absence  of 
Sir  John — kept  up  the  family  interest — was  an  excellent  elec- 
tioneerer — a  good  speaker,  at  a  pinch — an  able  niagistrate — » 


go  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

man,  in  short,  most  useful  in  the  county  : — on  the  whole,  he  was 
more  popular  than  his  brother,  and  almost  as  much  looked  up 
to — perhaps,  because  he  was  much  less  ostentatious.  He  had 
very  good  taste,  had  the  Reverend  Charles  Merton  ! — his  table 
plentiful,  but  plain — his  manners  affable  to  the  low,  though 
agreeably  sycophantic  to  the  high  ;  and  there  was  nothing  about 
him  that  ever  wounded  self-love.  To  add  to  the  attractions  of 
his  house,  his  wife,  simple  and  good  tempered,  could  talk  with 
any  body,  take  off  the  bores,  and  leave  people  to  be  comfort- 
able in  their  own  way ;  while  he  had  a  large  family  of  fine 
children  of  all  ages,  that  had  long  given  easy  and  constant 
excuse,  under  the  name  of  "little  children's  parties,"  for  getting 
up  an  impromptu  dance,  or  a  gipsy  dinner — enlivening  the 
neighborhood,  in  short.  Caroline  was  the  eldest ;  then  came  a 
son,  attached  to  a  foreign  ministry,  and  another,  who,  though  only 
nineteen,  was  a  private  secretary  to  one  of  our  Indian  satraps. 
The  acquaintance  of  these  young  gentlemen,  thus  engaged,  it 
was  therefore  Evelyn's  misfortune  to  lose  the  advantage  of  cul- 
tivating— a  loss  which  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton  assured  her 
was  very  much  to  be  regretted.  But  to  make  up  to  her  for  such 
a  privation,  there  were  two  lovely  little  girls,  one  ten  and  the 
other  seven  years  old,  who  fell  in  love  with  Evelyn  at  first  sight. 
Caroline  was  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  county, — clever  and 
conversible — "drew  young  men,"  and  set  the  fashion  to  young 
ladies,  especially  when  she  returned  from  spending  the  season 
with  Lady  Elizabeth. 

It  was  a  delightful  family ! 

In  person  Mr.  Merton  was  of  the  middle  height,  fair  and 
inclined  to  stoutness,  with  small  features,  beautiful  teeth,  and 
great  suavity  of  address.  Mindful  still  of  the  time  when  he  had 
been  "  about  town,"  he  was  very  particular  in  his  dress  :  his  black 
coat,  neatly  relieved  in  the  evening  by  a  white  underwaistcoat, 
and  a  shirt-front  admirably  plaited,  with  plain  studs  of  dark 
enamel — his  well-cut  trowsers  and  elaborately-polished  shoes — 
(he  was  good-humoredly  vain  of  his  feet  and  hands) — won  for 
him  the  common  praise  of  the  dandies  (who  occasionally  hon- 
ored him  with  a  visit  to  shoot  his  game  and  flirt  with  his  daughter), 
"  that  old  Merton  was  a  most  gentlemanlike  fellow — so  d — rd 
neat  for  a  parson  ! " 

Such,  mentally,  morally,  and  physically,  was  the  Reverend 
Charles  Merton,  rector  of  Merton,  brother  of  Sir  John,  and 
possessor  of  an  income  that,  what  with  his  rich  living,  his  wife's 
fortune,  and  his  own,  which  was  not  inconsiderable,  amounted 
to  between  four  and  five  thousand  pounds  a-year — which  income. 


ALICE;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  51 

managed  with  judgment,  as  well  as  liberality,  could  not  fail  to 
secure  to  him  all  the  good  things  of  this  world — the  respect  of 
his  friends  amongst  the  rest.  Caroline  was  right  when  she  told 
Evelyn  that  her  papa  was  very  different  from  a  mere  country 
parson. 

Now  this  gentleman  could  not  fail  to  see  all  the  claims  that 
Evelyn  might  fairly  advance  upon  the  esteem,  nay,  the  venera- 
tion, of  himself  and  family:  a  young  beauty  with  a  fortune  of 
about  a  quarter  of  a  million  was  a  phenomenon  that  might  fairly 
be  called  celestial.  Her  pretensions  were  enhanced  by  her  en- 
gagement to  Lord  Vargrave — an  engagement  which  might  be 
broken  ;  so  that,  as  he  interpreted  it,  the  worsi  that  could  happen 
to  the  young  lady  was  to  marry  an  able  and  rising  Minister  of 
State — a  peer  of  the  realm  ;  but  she  was  perfectly  free  to  marry 
a  still  greater  man,  if  she  could  find  him  ;  and  who  knows  but 
what  perhaps  the  attach^,  if  he  could  get  leave  of  absence  ? — 
Mr.  Merton  was  too  sensible  to  pursue  that  thought  further  for 
the  present. 

The  good  man  was  greatly  shocked  at  the  too-familiar  manner 
in  which  Mrs.  Merton  spoke  to  this  high-fated  heiress — at  Eve- 
lyn's travelling  so  far  without  her  own  maid — at  her  very  primitive 
wardrobe — poor,  ill-used  child  !  Mr.  Merton  was  a  connoisseur 
in  ladies' dress.  It  was  quite  painful  to  see  that  the  unfortunate 
girl  had  been  so  neglected.  Lady  Vargrave  must  be  a  very 
strange  person.  He  inquired  compassionately  whether  she  was 
allowed  any  pocket-money?  and  finding  to  his  relief  that  in  that 
respect  Miss  Cameron  was  munificently  supplied,  he  suggested 
that  a  proper  Abigail  should  be  immediately  engaged  ;  that 
proper  orders  to  Madame  Devy  should  be  immediately  trans- 
mitted to  London,  with  one  of  Evelyn's  dresses,  as  a  pattern 
for  nothing  but  length  and  breadth.  He  almost  stamped  with 
vexation  when  he  heard  that  Evelyn  had  been  placed  in  one  of 
the  neat  little  rooms  generally  appropriated  to  young  lady  visitors. 

"She  is  quite  contented,  my  dear  Mr.  Merton;  she  is  so 
simple  ;  she  has  not  been  brought  up  in  the  style  you  think  for." 

"Mrs.  Merton,"  said  the  rector,  with  great  solemnity,  "Miss 
Cameron  may  know  no  better  now ;  but  what  will  she  think  of 
us  hereafter  ?  It  is  my  maxim  to  recollect  what  people  will  be,  and 
show  them  that  respect  which  may  leave  pleasing  impressions 
when  they  have  it  in  their  power  to  show  us  civility  in  return." 

With  many  apologies,  which  quite  overwhelmed  poor  Evelyn, 
she  was  transferred  from  the  little  chamber,  with  its  French  bed 
and  bamboo  colored  washhand-stand,  to  an  apartment  with  a 
buhl  wardrobe  and  a  four-post  bed  with  green  silk  curtains, 


52  ALICE;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

usually  appropriated  to  the  regular  Christmas  visitant,  the 
Dowager  Countess  of  Chipperton  :  a  pretty  morning-room  com- 
municated with  the  sleeping  apartment,  and  thence  a  private 
staircase  conducted  into  the  gardens.  The  whole  family  were 
duly  impressed  and  re-impressed  with  her  importance.  No  queen 
could  be  more  made  of.  Evelyn  mistook  it  all  for  pure  kind- 
ness, and  returned  the  hospitality  with  an  affection  that  extended 
to  the  whole  family,  but  particularly  to  the  two  little  girls  and 
a  beautiful  black  spaniei.  Her  dresses  came  down  from  Lon- 
don— her  Abigail  arrived — the  buhl  wardrobe  was  duly  filled — 
and  Evelyn  at  last  learned  that  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  rich.  An 
account  of  all  these  proceedings  was  forwarded  to  Lady  Var- 
grave  in  a  long  and  most  complacent  letter  by  the  rector  him- 
self. The  answer  was  short,  but  it  contented  the  excellent  clergy- 
man ;  for  it  approved  of  all  he  had  done  and  begged  that  Miss 
Cameron  might  have  everything  that  seemed  proper  to  her  station. 

By  the  same  post  came  two  letters  to  Evelyn  herself — one 
from  Lady  Vargrave,  one  from  the  curate.  They  transported 
her  from  the  fine  room  and  the  buhl  wardrobe,  to  the  cottage 
and  the  lawn  ; — and  the  fine  Abigail,  when  she  came  to  dress 
her  young  lady's  hair,  found  her  weeping. 

It  was  a  matter  of  great  regret  to  the  rector  that  it  was  that 
time  of  year  when — precisely  because  the  country  is  most  beauti- 
ful— every  one  worth  knowing  is  in  town.  Still,  however,  some 
stray  guests  found  their  way  to  the  rectory  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  still  there  were  some  aristocratic  old  families  in  the  neigh- 
borhood who  never  went  up  to  London  ;  so  that  two  days  in 
the  week  the  rector's  wine  flowed,  the  whist-tables  were  set  out, 
and  the  piano  called  into  requisition. 

Evelyn — the  object  of  universal  attention  and  admiration — 
was  put  at  her  ease  by  her  station  itself ;  for  good  manners 
come  like  an  instinct  to  those  on  whom  the  world  smiles.  In- 
sensibly she  acquired  self-possession  and  the  smoothness  of 
society  ;  and  if  her  childlike  playfulness  broke  out  from  all  con- 
ventional restraint,  it  only  made  more  charming  and  brilliant 
the  great  heiress,  whose  delicate  and  fairy  cast  of  beauty  so 
well  became  her  graceful  abandon  of  manner,  and  who  looked 
so  unequivocally  ladylike  to  the  eyes  that  rested  on  Madame 
Devy's  blondes  and  satins. 

Caroline  was  not  so  gay  as  she  had  been  at  the  cottage. 
Something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  spirits :  she  was  often 
moody  and  thoughtful.  She  was  the  only  one  in  the  family  not 
good-tempered  ;  and  her  peevish  replies  to  her  parents  when 
no  visitor  imposed  a  check  on  the  family  circle  inconceivably 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  53 

pained  Evelyn,  and  greatly  contrasted  the  flow  of  spirits  which 
distinguished  her  when  she  found  somebody  worth  listening  to. 
Still  Evelyn — who  where  she  once  liked  found  it  difficult  to 
withdraw  regard — sought  to  overlook  Caroline's  blemishes,  and 
to  persuade  herself  of  a  thousand  good  qualities  below  the  sur- 
face ;  and  her  generous  nature  found  constant  opportunity  of 
venting  itself  in  costly  gifts  selected  from  the  London  parcels 
with  which  the  officious  Mr.  Merton  relieved  the  monotony  of 
the  rectory.  These  gifts  Caroline  could  not  refuse  without 
paining  her  young  friend.  She  took  them  reluctantly,  for,  to 
do  her  justice,  Caroline,  though  ambitious,  was  not  mean. 

Thus  time  passed  in  the  rectory  in  gay  variety  and  constant 
entertainment ;  and  all  things  combined  to  spoil  the  heiress, 
if,  indeed,  goodness  ever  is  spoiled  by  kindness  and  prosperity. 
Is  it  to  the  frost  or  to  the  sunshine  that  the  flower  opens  its 
petals,  or  the  fruit  ripens  from  the  blossom  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  J?od.  How  sweet  these  solitary  places  are — 

*  #  *  *  » 

Fed.  What  strange  musick 

Was  that  we  heard  afar  off  ? 
Curio.  We've  told  you  what  he  is — what  time  we've  sought  him — 
His  nature  and  his  name." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :   The  Pilgrim. 

One  day  as  the  ladies  were  seated  in  Mrs.  Merton's  morning 
room  Evelyn,  who  had  been  stationed  by  the  window  hearing 
the  little  Cecilia  go  through  the  French  verbs,  and  had  juit 
finished  that  agreeable  task,  exclaimed, 

"Do  tell  me  to  whom  that  old  house  belongs — with  the 
picturesque  gable-end  and  Gothic  turrets — there,  just  peeping 
through  the  trees — I  have  always  forgot  to  ask  you." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  "that  is 
Burleigh — have  you  not  been  there?  How  stupid  in  Caroline 
not  to  show  it  to  you.  It  is  one  of  the  lions  of  the  place.  It 
belongs  to  a  man  you  have  often  heard  of — Mr.  Maltravers." 

"Indeed  !"  cried  Evelyn;  and  she  gazed  with  new  interest 
on  the  gray  melancholy  pile,  as  the  sunshine  brought  it  into 
strong  contrast  with  the  dark  pines  around  it.  "  And  Mr.  Mal- 
travers himself — ?" 

"  Is  still  abroad,  I  believe  ;  though  I  did  hear  the  other  day 
that  he  was  shortly  expected  at  Burleigh.     It  is  a  curious  old 


54  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

place,  though  much  neglected.  I  believe,  indeed,  it  ha.  not 
been  furnished  since  the  time  of  Charles  the  First. — (Cissy,  my 
love,  don't  stoop  so.) — Very  gloomy,  in  my  opinion  ;  and  not 
any  fine  room  in  the  house  except  the  library,  which  was  once 
a  chapel.     However,  people  come  miles  to  see  it." 

"Will  you  go  there  to-day?  "said  Caroline,  languidly  ;  "it  is  a 
very  pleasant  walk  through  the  glebe-land  and  the  wood — not 
above  half-a-mile  by  the  foot-path." 

"I  should  like  it  so  much." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  "and  you  had  better  go  before  he 
returns — he  is  so  strange.  He  does  not  allow  it  to  be  seen  when 
he  is  down.  But,  indeed,  he  has  only  been  once  at  the  old  place 
since  he  was  of  age — (Sophy,  you  will  tear  Miss  Cameron's  scarf 
to  pieces  ;  do  be  quiet,  child.) — That  was  before  he  was  a  great 
man — he  was  then  very  odd — saw  no  society — only  dined  once 
with  us — though  Mr.  Merton  paid  him  every  attention.  They 
show  the  room  in  which  he  wrote   his  books." 

"  I  remember  him  very  well,  though  I  was  then  but  a  child," 
said  Caroline, — "a  handsome,  thoughtful  face." 

"Did  you  think  so,  my  dear?  fine  eyes  and  teeth,  certainly, 
and  a  commanding  figure — but  nothing  more." 

"Well,"  said  Caroline,  "if  you  like  to  go,  Evelyn,  I  am  at 
your  service." 

"And — I — Evy,  dear — I — may  go,"  said  Cecilia,  clinging  to 
Evelyn. 

"And  me  too,"  lisped  Sophia — the  youngest  hope — "there's 
such  a  pretty  peacock." 

"  Oh,  yes — they  may  go,  Mrs.  Merton,  we'll  take  such  care  of 
them." 

"Very  well,  my  dear — Miss  Cameron  quite  spoils  you." 

Evelyn  tripped  away  to  put  on  her  bonnet — and  the  children 
ran  after  her,  clapping  their  hands, — they  could  not  bear  to  lose 
sight  of  her  for  a  moment. 

"Caroline,"  said  Mrs.  Merton  affectionately,  "are  you  not 
well? — you  have  seemed  pale  lately,  and  not  in  your  usual 
spirits." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  well  enough,"  answered  Caroline,  rather 
peevishly  :  "but  this  place  is  so  dull  now — very  provoking  that 
Lady  Elizabeth  does  not  go  to  London  this  year." 

"  My  dear,  it  will  be  ^^ayer,  I  hope,  in  July,  when  the  races 
at  Knaresdean  begin  ;  and  Lord  Vargrave  has  promised  to 
come." 

"  Has  Lord  Vargrave  written  to  you  lately  ?  " 

"No,  roy  dear." 


ALICE  ;    OR,  tUE  MYSTERIES.  55 

"  Very  odd." 

"Does  Evelyn  ever  talk  of  him  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Caroline,  rising  and  quitting  the  room. 

It  was  a  most  cheerful,  exhilarating  day,  the  close  of  sweet 
May  ;  the  hedges  were  white  with  blossoms,  a  light  breeze 
rustled  the  young  leaves,  the  butterflies  had  ventured  forth,  and 
the  children  chased  them  over  the  grass,  as  Evelyn  and  Caro- 
line, who  walked  much  too  slow  for  her  companion  (Evelyn 
longed  to  run),  followed  them  soberly  towards  Burleigh. 

Tliey  passed  the  glebe-fields ;  and  a  little  bridge  thrown 
over  a  brawling  rivulet  conducted  them  into  a  wood. 

"  This  stream,"  said  Caroline,  "  forms  the  boundary  between 
my  uncle's  estates  and  those  of  Mr.  Maltravers.  It  must  be 
very  unpleasant  to  so  proud  a  man  as  Mr.  Maltravers  is  said  to 
be  to  have  the  land  of  another  proprietor  so  near  his  house. 
He  could  hear  my  uncle's  gun  from  his  very  drawing-room. 
However,  Sir  John  takes  care  not  to  molest  him.  On  the  other 
side  the  Burleigh  estates  extend  for  some  miles  ;  indeed,  Mr. 
Maltravers  is  the  next  great  proprietor  to  my  uncle  in  this  part 
of  the  county.  Very  strange  that  he  does  not  marry  !  There, 
now  you  can  see  the  house." 

The  mansion  lay  somewhat  low,  with  hanging  woods  in  the 
rear;  and  the  old-fashioned  fish-ponds  gleaming  in  the  sunshine, 
and  overshadowed  by  gigantic  trees,  increased  the  venerable 
stillness  of  its  aspect.  Ivy  and  innumerable  creepers  covered 
one  side  of  the  house ;  and  long  weeds  cumbered  the  de- 
serted road. 

"  It  is  sadly  neglected,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  and  was  so,  even  in 
the  last  owner's  life.  Mr.  Maltravers  inherits  the  place  from  his 
mother's  uncle.  We  may  as  well  enter  the  house  by  the  private 
way.     The  front  entrance  is  kept  locked  up." 

Winding  by  a  path  that  conducted  into  a  flower-garden, 
divided  from  the  park  by  a  ha-ha  over  which  a  plank  and  a 
small  gate  rusting  off  its  hinges  were  placed,  Caroline  led  the 
way  towards  the  building.  At  this  point  of  view  presented  a 
large  bay-window,  that  by  a  flight  of  four  steps  led  into  the 
garden.  On  one  side  rose  a  square,  narrow  turret,  surmounted 
by  a  gilt  dome  and  quaint  weathercock,  below  the  architrave  of 
which  was  a  sun-dial,  set  in  the  stone-work  ;  and  another  dial 
stood  in  the  garden,  with  the  common  and  beautiful  motto — 

"JVon  numero  horas,  nisi  seretias  !  "  * 
On  the  other  side  of  the  bay-window  a  huge  buttress  cast  its 
mass  of  shadow.     There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of 

♦  ■'  I  number  not  the  hours  unless  sunny." 


50  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  whole  place  that  invited  to  contemplation  and  repose- 
something  almost  monastic.  The  gaiety  of  the  teeming  spring- 
time could  not  divest  the  spot  of  a  certain  sadness,  not  displeas- 
ing, however,  whether  to  the  young,  to  whom  there  is  a  luxury 
in  the  vague  sentiment  of  melancholy,  or  to  those  who,  having 
known  real  griefs,  seek  for  an  anodyne  in  meditation  and  memory. 
The  low  lead-colored  door,  set  deep  in  the  turret,  was  locked, 
and  the  bell  inside  it  broken.  Caroline  turned  impatiently 
away.  "  We  must  go  round  to  the  other  side,"  said  she,  **  and 
try  to  make  the  deaf  old  man  hear  us." 

"  Oh,  Carry  !  "  cried  Cecilia,  "  the  great  window  is  open  ; " 
and  she  ran  up  the  steps. 

"  That  is  lucky,"  said  Caroline  ;  and  the  rest  followed  Cecilia. 

Evelyn  now  stood  within  the  library  of  which  Mrs.  Merton 
had  spoken.  It  was  a  large  room,  about  fifty  feet  in  length 
and  proportionally  wide  ;  somewhat  dark,  for  the  light  came 
only  from  the  one  large  window  through  which  they  entered  ; 
and  though  the  window  rose  to  the  cornice  of  the  ceiling  and 
took  up  one  side  of  the  apartment,  the  daylight  was  subdued 
by  the  heaviness  of  the  stonework  in  which  the  narrow  panes 
were  set,  and  by  the  glass  stained  with  armorial  bearings  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  casement.  The  bookcases,  too,  were  of  the 
dark  oak  which  so  often  absorbs  the  light ;  and  the  gliding, 
formerly  meant  to  relieve  them,  was  discolored  by  time. 

The  room  was  almost  disproportionably  lofty  ;  the  ceiling, 
elaborately  coved,  and  richly  carved  with  grotesque  masks,  pre- 
served the  Gothic  character  of  the  age  in  which  it  had  been  de- 
voted to  a  religious  purpose.  Two  fireplaces,  with  high  chimney- 
pieces  of  oak,  in  which  were  inserted  two  portraits,  broke  the 
symmetry  of  the  tall  bookcases.  In  one  of  these  fireplaces  were 
half-burnt  logs;  and  a  hugf  armchair,  with  a  small  reading- 
desk  beside  it,  seemed  to  bespeak  the  recent  occupation  of  the 
room.  On  the  fourth  side,  opposite  the  window,  the  wall  was 
covered  with  faded  tapestry,  representing  the  meeting  of  Solomon 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba ;  the  arras  was  nailed  over  doors,  on 
either  hand;  the  chinks  between  the  door  and  the  wall  serving, 
in  one  instance,  to  cut  off  in  the  middle  his  wise  majesty,  who 
was  making  a  low  bow  ;  while  in  the  other  it  took  the  ground 
from  under  the  wanton  queen,  just  as  she  was  descending  from 
her  chariot. 

Near  the  window  stood  a  grand  piano,  the  only  modern 
article  in  the  room,  save  one  of  the  portraits,  presently  to  be 
described.  On  all  this  Evelyn  gazed  silently  and  devoutly; 
she  had  naturally  that  reverence  for  genius  which  is  common 


AitCE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  57 

to  the  enthusiastic  and  young  ;  and  there  is,  even  to  the  dullest, 
a  certain  interest  in  the  homes  of  those  who  have  implanted 
within  us  a  new  thought.  But  here  there  was,  she  imagined, 
a  rare  and  singular  harmony  between  the  place  and  the 
mental  characteristics  of  the  owner.  She  fancied  she 
now  better  understood  the  shadowy  and  metaphysical  repose 
of  thought  that  had  distinguished  the  earlier  writings  of 
Maltravers — the  writings  composed  or  planned  in  this  still 
retreat. 

But  what  particularly  caught  her  attention  was  one  of  the 
two  portraits  that  adorned  the  mantelpieces.  The  further  one 
was  attired  in  the  rich  and  fanciful  armor  of  the  time  of  Eliza- 
beth ;  the  head  bare,  the  helmet  on  a  table  on  which  the  hand 
rested.  It  was  a  handsome  and  striking  countenance  ;  and  an 
inscription  announced  it  to  be  a  Digby,  an  ancestor  of  Mal- 
travers. 

But  the  other  was  a  beautiful  girl  of  about  eighteen,  in  the 
now  almost  antiquated  dress  of  forty  years  ago.  The  features 
were  delicate,  but  the  colors  somewhat  faded,  and  there  was 
something  mournful  in  the  expression.  A  silk  curtain  drawn 
on  one  side  seemed  to  denote  how  carefully  it  was  prized  by 
the  possessor. 

Evelyn  turned  for  explanation  to  her  cicerone. 

"This  is  the  second  time  I  have  seen  that  picture,"  said  Caro- 
line ;  "for  it  is  only  by  great  entreaty  and  as  a  mysterious  favor 
that  the  old  housekeeper  draws  aside  the  veil.  Some  touch  of 
sentiment  in  Maltravers  makes  him  regard  it  as  sacred.  It  is  the 
picture  of  his  mother  before  she  married  ;  she  died  in  giving 
him  birth." 

Evelyn  sighed  ;  how  well  she  understood  the  sentiment  which 
seemed  to  Caroline  so  eccentric  !  The  countenance  fascinated 
her ;  the  eye  seemed  to  follow  her  as  she  turned. 

"Asa  proper  pendant  to  this  picture,"  said  Caroline,  "he 
ought  to  have  dismissed  the  effigies  of  yon  warlike  gentleman, 
and  replaced  it  by  one  of  poor  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,  for 
whose  loss  he  is  said  to  have  quitted  his  country ;  but,  perhaps, 
it  was  the  loss  of  her  fortune." 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ? — fie  !  "  cried  Evelyn,  with  a  burst  of 
generous  indignation. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  heiresses  have  a  fellow-feeling  with  each 
other !  Nevertheless,  clever  men  are  less  sentimental  than  we 
deem  them — heigho  ! — this  quiet  room  gives  me  the  spleen,  I 
fancy." 

*'  Dearest  Evy,"  whispered  Cecilia,  "  I  think  you  have  a  look 


58  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

of  that  pretty  picture,  only  you  are  much  prettier.  Do  take  off 
your  bonnet ;  your  hair  just  falls  down  like  hers." 

Evelyn  shook  her  head  gravely  ;  but  the  spoiled  child  hastily 
untied  the  ribands  and  snatched  away  the  hat,  and  Evelyn's 
sunny  ringlets  fell -down  in  beautiful  disorder.  There  was  no 
resemblance  between  Evelyn  and  the  portrait,  except  in  the 
color  of  the  hair  and  the  careless  fashion  it  now  by  chance 
assumed.  Yet  Evelyn  was  pleased  to  think  that  a  likeness  did 
exist,  though  Caroline  declared  it  was  a  most  unflattering  com- 
pliment. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  the  latter,  changing  the  theme,  "I 
don't  wonder  Mr.  Maltravers  lives  so  little  in  this  'Castle  Dull ;' 
yet  it  might  be  much  improved.  French  windows  and  plate-glass, 
for  instance  ;  and  if  those  lumbering  bookshelves  and  horrid 
old  chimneypieces  were  removed,  and  the  ceiling  painted  white 
and  gold,  like  that  in  my  uncle's  saloon,  and  a  rich,  lively  paper, 
instead  of  the  tapestry,  it  would  really  make  a  very  fine  ballroom." 

"Let  us  have  a  dance  here  now,"  cried  Cecilia.  "Come,  stand 
up,  Sophy;"  and  the  children  began  to  practise  a  waltz  step, 
tumbling  over  each  other  and  laughing  in  full  glee. 

"  Hush,  hush  ! "  said  Evelyn,  softly.  She  had  never  before 
checked  the  children's  mirth,  and  she  could  not  tell  why  she 
did  so  now. 

"  I  suppose  the  old  butler  has  been  entertaining  the  bailiff 
here,"  said  Caroline,  pointing  to  the  remains  of  the  fire. 

"And  is  this  the  room  he  chiefly  inhabited — the  room  that 
you  say  they  show  as  his  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  tapestry  door  to  the  right  leads  into  a  little  study 
where  he  wrote."  So  saying,  Caroline  tried  to  open  the  door, 
but  it  was  locked  from  within.  She  then  opened  the  other  door, 
which  showed  a  long  wainscoted  passage,  hung  with  rusty  pikes 
and  a  few  breastplates  of  the  time  of  the  Parliamentary  Wars. 
"This  leads  to  the  main  body  of  the  house,"  said  Caroline, 
"from  which  the  room  we  are  now  in  and  the  little  study  are 
completely  detached,  having,  as  you  know,  been  the  chapel  in 
popish  times.  I  have  heard  that  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  an  ancestral 
connexion  of  the  present  owner,  first  converted  them  into  their 
present  use,  and  in  return  built  the  village  church  on  the 
other  side  of  the  park." 

Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  the  old  cavalier-philosopher ! — a  new  name 
of  interest  to  consecrate  the  place !  Evelyn  could  have  lingered 
all  day  in  the  room  ;  and,  perhaps,  as  an  excuse  for  a  longer 
sojourn  hastened  to  the  piano — it  was  open — she  ran  her  fairy 
fingers  over  the  keys,  and  the  sound  from  the  untuned  and 


ALICE  :     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  59 

neglected  Instrument  thrilled  wild  and  spiritlike  through  the 
melancholy  chamber. 

"Oh  !  do  sing  us  something,  Evy,"  cried  Cecilia,  running  up 
to  and  drawing  a  chair  to  the  instrument. 

"Do,  Evelyn,"  said  Caroline,  languidly;  "it  will  serve  to 
bring  one  of  the  servants  to  us,  and  save  us  a  journey  to  the 
offices." 

It  was  just  what  Evelyn  wished.  Some  verses  which  her 
mother  especially  loved  ;  verses  written  by  Maltravers  upon 
returning,  after  absence,  to  his  own  home,  had  rushed  into  her 
mind  as  she  had  touched  the  keys.  They  were  appropriate  to  the 
place,  and  had  been  beautifully  set  to  music.  So  the  children 
hushed  themselves  and  nestled  at  her  feet ;  and,  after  a  little 
prelude,  keeping  the  accompaniment  under,  that  the  spoiled 
instrument  might  not  mar  the  sweet  words  and  sweeter  voice, 
slie  began  the  song. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  adjoining  room,  the  little  study  which  Caro- 
line had  spoken  of,  sate  the  owner  of  the  house  ! — He  had  returned 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  the  previous  night.  The  old  steward 
was  in  attendance  at  the  moment,  full  of  apologies,  congratula- 
tions, and  gossip  ;  and  Maltravers,  grown  a  stern  and  haughty 
man,  was  already  impatiently  turning  away,  when  he  heard  the 
sudden  sound  of  the  children's  laughter  and  loud  voices  in  the 
room  beyond.     Maltravers  frowned. 

"What  impertinence  is  this?"  said  he,  in  a  tone  that,  though 
very  calm,  made  the  steward  quake  in  his  shoes. 

"I  don't  know,  really,  your  honor;  there  be  so  many  grand 
folks  come  to  see  the  house  in  the  fine  weather,  that — " 

"And  you  permit  your  master's  house  to  be  a  raree-show  ? — 
you  do  well,  sir." 

"  If  your  honor  were  more  amongst  us,  there  might  be  more 
discipline  like,"  said  the  steward  stoutly;  "but  no  one  in  my 
time  has  cared  so  little  for  the  old  place  as  those  it  belongs  to." 

"Fewer  words  with  me,  sir,"  said  Maltravers,  haughtily; 
"and  now  go  and  inform  those  people  that  I  am  returned,  and 
wish  for  no  guests  but  those  I  invite  mysel£" 

"Sir!" 

"Do  you  not  hear  me?  Say,  that  if  it  so  please  them,  these 
old  ruins  are  my  property,  and  are  not  to  be  jobbed  out  lo  the 
insolence  of  public  curiosity.     Go,  sir." 

"But — I  beg  pardon,  your  honor — if  they  be  great  folks? — " 

"  Great  folks  ! — great !  Ay,  there  it  is.  Why,  if  they  be  great 
folks,  they  have  great  houses  of  their  own,  Mr.  Justis." 

The  steward  stared.  "  Perhaps,  your  honor,"  he  put  in,  depreca- 


6o  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

tingly,  "they  be  Mr.  Merton's  family — tliey  come  very  often 
when  the  London  gentlemen  are  with  them," 

"  Merton  ! — oh,  the  cringing  parson.  Harkye  !  one  word 
more  with  me,  sir,  and  you  quit  my  service  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Justis  lifted  his  eyes  and  hands  to  heaven  :  but  there  was 
something  in  his  master's  voice  and  look  which  checked  reply, 
and  he  turned  slowly  to  the  door — when  a  voice  of  such  heavenly 
sweetness  was  heard  without,  that  it  arrested  his  own  step  and 
made  the  stern  Maltravers  start  in  his  seat.  He  held  up  his 
hand  to  the  steward  to  delay  his  errand,  and  listened,  charmed 
and  spellbound.  His  own  words  came  on  his  ear — words  long 
unfamiliar  to  him  and  at  first  but  imperfectly  remembered — 
words  connected  with  the  early  and  virgin  years  of  poetry  and 
aspiration — words  that  were  as  the  ghosts  of  thoughts  now  far 
too  gentle  for  his  altered  soul.  He  bowed  down  his  head,  and 
the  dark  shade  left  his  brow. 

The  song  ceased.  Maltravers  moved  with  a  sigh,  and  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  form  of  the  steward  with  his  hand  on  the 
door. 

*'  Shall  I  give  your  honor's  message  ? "  said  Mr.  Justis, 
gravely. 

"  No — take  care  for  the  future  :  leave  me  now." 

Mr.  Justis  made  one  leg,  and  then,  well  pleased,  took  to  both. 

**  Well,"  thought  he,  as  he  departed,  "  hovv  foreign  parts  do 
spoil  a  gentleman  ! — so  mild  as  he  was  once  !  I  must  botch  up 
the  accounts,  I  see — the  squire  has  grown  sharp." 

As  Evelyn  concluded  her  song  she — whose  charm  in  singing 
was  that  she  sang  from  the  heart — was  so  touched  by  the  mel- 
ancholy music  of  the  air  and  words,  that  her  voice  faltered 
and  the  last  line  died  inaudibly  on  her  lips. 

The  children  sprang  up  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,"  cried  Cecilia,  "there  is  the  beautiful  peacock  !  "  And 
there,  indeed,  on  the  steps  without — perhaps  attracted  by  the 
music,  stood  the  picturesque  bird.  The  children  ran  out  to 
greet  their  old  favorite,  who  was  extremely  tame  ;  and  presently 
Cecilia  returned. 

"  Oh,  Carry  !  do  see  what  beautiful  horses  are  coming  up  the 
park !  " 

Caroline,  who  was  a  good  rider,  and  fond  of  horses,  and 
whose  curiosity  was  always  aroused  by  things  connected  with 
show  and  station — suffered  the  little  girl  to  draw  her  into  the 
garden.  Two  grooms,  each  mounted  on  a  horse  of  the  pure 
Arabian  breed,  and  each  leading  another,  swathed  and  band- 
aged, were  riding  slowly  up  the  road  ;  and  Caroline  was  so 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  6i 

attracted  by  the  novel  appearance  of  the  animals  in  a  place  so 
deserted,  that  she  followed  the  children  towards  them,  to  learn 
who  could  possibly  be  their  enviable  owner.  Evelyn,  forgotten 
for  the  moment,  remained  alone.  She  was  pleased  at  being  so, 
and  once  more  turned  to  the  picture  which  had  so  attracted  her 
before.  The  mild  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  an  expression  that 
recalled  to  her  mind  her  own  mother. 

"  And,"  thought  she,  as  she  gazed,  *'  this  fair  creature  did 
not  live  to  know  the  fame  of  her  son — to  rejoice  in  his  success 
— or  to  soothe  his  grief.  And  he,  that  son — a  disappointed  and 
solitary  exile  in  distant  lands,  while  strangers  stand  within  his 
deserted  hall !  " 

The  images  she  had  conjured  up  moved  and  absorbed  her, 
and  she  continued  to  stand  before  the  picture,  gazing  upward 
with  moistened  eyes.  It  was  a  beautiful  vision  as  she  thus 
stood,  with  her  delicate  bloom,  her  luxuriant  hair  (for  the  hat 
was  not  yet  replaced) — her  elastic  form,  so  full  of  youth,  and 
health,  and  hope — the  living  form  beside  the  faded  canvas  of 
the  dead — once  youthful,  tender,  lovely  as  herself !  Evelyn 
turned  away  with  a  sigh — the  sigh  was  re-echoed  yet  more 
deeply.  She  started :  the  door  that  led  to  the  study  was 
opened,  and  in  the  aperture  was  the  figure  of  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life.  His  hair,  still  luxuriant  as  in  his  earliest  youth, 
though  darkened  by  the  suns  of  the  East,  curled  over  a  fore- 
head of  majestic  expanse.  The  high  and  proud  features,  that 
well  became  a  stature  above  the  ordinary  standard — the  pale 
but  bronzed  complexion — the  large  eyes  of  deepest  blue,  shaded 
by  dark  brows  and  lashes — and,  more  than  all,  that  expression 
at  once  of  passion  and  repose  which  characterizes  the  old  Italian 
portraits,  and  seems  to  denote  the  inscrutable  power  that  ex- 
perience imparts  to  intellect — constituted  an  ensemble  which,  if 
not  faultlessly  handsome,  was  eminently  striking  and  formed  at 
once  to  interest  and  command.  It  was  a  face,  once  seen,  never 
to  be  forgotten  ;  it  was  a  face  that  had  long,  half  unconsciously, 
haunted  Evelyn's  young  dreams  ;  it  was  a  face  she  had  seen 
before,  though  then,  younger,  and  milder,  and  fairer,  it  wore  a 
different  aspect. 

Evelyn  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  feeling  herself  blush  to  her 
very  temples — an  enchanting  picture  of  bashful  confusion  and 
innocent  alarm. 

"  Do  not  let  me  regret  my  return,"  said  the  stranger,  approach- 
ing after  a  short  pause,  and  with  much  gentleness  in  his  voice 
and  smile,  "  and  think  that  the  owner  is  doomed  to  scare  away 
the  fair  spirits  that  hwnted  the  spot  in  his  absence," 


62  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"The  owner  !  "  repeated  Evelyn,  almost  inaudibly,  and  in 
increased  embarrassment :  "  are  you  then  the — the  — ?" 

"Yes,"  courteously  interrupted  tlie  stranger,  seeing  her  con- 
fusion ;  "  my  name  is  Maltravers  ;  and  I  am  to  blame  for  not 
having  informed  you  of  my  sudden  return,  or  for  now  trespass- 
ing on  your  presence.  But  you  see  my  excuse ; "  and  he 
pointed  to  the  instrument.  "You  have  the  magic  that  draws 
even  the  serpent  from  his  hole.     But  you  are  not  alone  ? " 

"Oh,  no!  no,  indeed !  Miss  Merton  is  with  me.  I  know 
not  where  she  is  gone.     I  will  seek  her." 

"  Miss  Merton  !     You  are  not  then  one  of  that  family?" 

"  No,  only  a  guest.  I  will  find  her — she  must  apologize  for 
us.  We  were  not  aware  that  you  were  here — indeed  we  were 
not." 

"That  is  a  cruel  excuse,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling  at  her 
eagerness  :  and  the  smile  and  the  look  reminded  her  yet  more 
forcibly  of  the  time  when  he  had  carried  her  in  his  arms,  and 
soothed  her  suffering,  and  praised  her  courage,  and  pressed  the 
kiss  almost  of  a  lover  on  her  hand.  At  that  thought  she  blushed 
yet  more  deeply,  and  yet  more  eagerly  turned  to  escape. 

Maltravers  did  not  seek  to  detain  her,  but  silently  followed 
her  steps.  She  had  scarcely  gained  the  window  before  little 
Cecilia  scampered  in,  crying — 

"Only  think  !  Mr.  Maltravers  has  come  back,  and  brought 
such  beautiful  horses  !  " 

Cecilia  stopped  abruptly,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  stranger  ; 
and  the  next  moment  Caroline  herself  appeared.  Her  worldly 
experience  and  quick  sense  saw  immediately  what  had  chanced  : 
and  she  hastened  to  apologize  to  Maltravers,  and  congratulate 
him  on  his  return,  with  an  ease  that  astonished  poor  Evelyn, 
and  by  no  means  seemed  appreciated  by  Maltravers  himself. 
He  replied  with  brief  and  haughty  courtesy. 

"My  father,"  continued  Caroline,  "will  be  so  glad  to  hear 
you  are  come  back.  He  will  hasten  to  pay  you  his  respects, 
and  apologize  for  his  truants.  But  I  have  not  formally  intro- 
duced you  to  my  fellow-offender.  My  dear,  let  me  present  to 
you  one  whom  Fame  has  already  made  known  to  you — Mr.  Mal- 
travers, Miss  Cameron,  daughter-in-law,"  she  added,  in  a  lower 
voice,  "to  the  late  Lord  Vargrave." 

At  the  first  part  of  this  introduction  Maltravers  frowned — at 
the  last  he  forgot  all  displeasure. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  thought  I  had  seen  you  before,  but  in  a 
dream.     Ah  !  then  we  are  not  quite  strangers  ! " 

Evelyn's  eye  ro?t  his,  and  though  gh?  colored  ^nd  strove  to 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  6^ 

look  grave,  a  half  smile  brought  out  the  dimples  that  played 
round  her  arch  lips. 

"But  you  do  not  remember  me  ?"  added  Maltravers. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  exclaimed  Evelyn,  with  a  sudden  impulse ;  and 
then  checked  herself. 

Caroline  came  to  her  friend's  relief. 

"  What  is  this  ? — you  surprise  me — where  did  you  ever  see 
Mr.  Maltravers  before  ?  " 

"I  can  answer  that  question,  Miss  Merton.  When  Miss 
Cameron  was  but  a  child,  as  high  as  my  little  friend  here,  an 
accident  on  the  road  procured  me  her  acquaintance ;  and  the 
sweetness  and  fortitude  she  then  displayed  left  an  impression 
on  me  not  worn  out  even  to  this  day.  And  thus  we  meet 
again,"  added  Maltravers,  in  a  muttered  voice,  as  to  himself. 
"  How  strange  a  thing  life  is  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Merton,  "we  must  intrude  on  you  no 
more — you  have  so  much  to  do.  I  am  so  sorry  Sir  John  is  not 
down  to  welcome  you  ;  but  I  hope  we  shall  be  good  neighbors. 
Au  revoir  !  " 

And  fancying  herself  most  charming,  Caroline  bowed,  smiled, 
and  walked  off  with  her  train.  Maltravers  paused  irresolute. 
If  Evelyn  had  looked  back,  he  would  have  accompanied  them 
home  ;  but  Evelyn  did  not  look  back, — and  he  stayed. 

Miss  Merton  rallied  her  young  friend  unmercifully  as  they 
walked  homeward,  and  she  extracted  a  very  brief  and  imperfect 
history  of  the  adventure  that  had  formed  the  first  acquaintance, 
and  of  the  interview  by  which  it  had  been  renewed.  But 
Evelyn  did  not  heed  her  ;  and  the  moment  they  arrived  at  the 
rectory  she  hastened  to  shut  herself  in  her  room,  and  write  the 
account  of  her  adventure  to  her  mother.  How  often  in  her 
girlish  reveries  had  she  thought  of  that  incident — that  stranger  ! 
And  now,  by  such  a  chance,  and  after  so  many  years,  to  meet 
tiie  Unknown,  by  his  own  hearth  !  and  that  Unknown  to  be 
Maltravers  !  It  was  as  if  a  dream  had  come  true.  While  she 
was  yet  musing — and  the  letter  not  yet  begun — she  heard  the 
sound  of  joy-bells  in  the  distance — at  once  she  divined  the 
cause ;  it  was  the  welcome  of  the  wanderer  to  his  solitary 
home  ! 


^4  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Mais  en  connaissant  votre  condition  naturelle,  usez  des  moyens  qui  lui 
sont  propres,  et  ne  pretendez  pas  regner  par  une  autre  voie  que  par  celie  qui 
vous  fait  roi." — Pascal.* 

In  the  heart,  as  in  the  ocean,  the  great  tides  ebb  and  flow. 
The  waves  which  had  once  urged  on  the  spirit  of  Ernest  Mal- 
travers  to  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  active  life,  had  long  since 
receded  back  upon  the  calm  depths,  and  left  the  strand  bare. 
With  a  melancholy  and  disappointed  mind,  he  had  quitted  the 
land  of  his  birth  ;  and  new  scenes,  strange  and  wild,  had  risen 
before  his  wandering  gaze.  Wearied  with  civilization,  and 
sated  with  many  of  the  triumphs  for  which  civilized  men  drudge 
and  toil  and  disquiet  themselves  in  vain,  he  had  plunged 
amongst  hordes  scarce  i-edeemed  from  primeval  barbarism. 
The  adventures  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  in  which 
life  itself  could  only  be  preserved  by  wary  vigilance  and  ready 
energies,  had  forced  him  for  a  while  from  the  indulgence  of 
morbid  contemplations.  His  heart,  indeed,  had  been  left  in- 
active ;  but  his  intellect  and  his  physical  powers  had  been  kept 
in  hourly  exercise.  He  returned  to  the  world  of  his  equals 
with  a  mind  laden  with  the  treasures  of  a  various  and  vast  ex- 
perience, and  with  much  of  the  same  gloomy  moral  as  that 
which,  on  emerging  from  the  Catacombs,  assured  the  restless 
speculations  of  Rasselas  of  the  vanity  of  human  life  and  the 
folly  of  moral  aspirations. 

Ernest  Maltravers,  never  a  faultless  or  completed  character, 
falling  short  in  practise  of  his  own  capacities,  moral  and  intel- 
lectual, from  his  very  desire  to  overpass  the  limits  of  the  Great 
and  Good,  was  seemingly  as  far  as  heretofore  from  the  grand 
secret  of  life.  It  was  not  so  in  reality — his  mind  had  acquired 
what  before  it  wanted — hardness ;  and  we  are  nearer  to  true 
virtue  and  true  happiness  when  we  demand  too  little  from  men, 
than  when  we  exact  too  much. 

Nevertheless,  partly  from  the  strange  life  that  had  thrown 
him  amongst  men  whom  safety  itself  made  it  necessary  to  com- 
mand despotically,  partly  from  the  habit  of  power  and  disdain 
of  the  world,  his  nature  was  incrusted  with  a  stern  imperious- 
ness  of  manner,  often  approaching  to  the  harsh  and  morose, 
though  beneath  it  lurked  generosity  and  benevolence. 

Many  of  his  younger  feelings,  more  amiable  and  complex,  had 

♦  But  in  understanding  your  natural  condition,  use  the  means  which  are  proper  to  it,  and 
pntend  not  to  govern  by  any  other  way  than  by  that  which  constitutes  you  governor. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  65 

settled  into  one  predominant  quality,  which  more  or  less  had 
always  characterized  him — Pride  !  Self-esteem  made  inactive, 
and  Ambition  made  discontented,  usually  engender  haught- 
iness. In  Maltravers  this  quality,  which,  properly  controlled 
and  duly  softened,  is  the  essence  and  life  of  honor,  was  carried 
to  a  vice.  He  was  perfectly  conscious  of  its  excess,  but  he 
cherished  it  as  a  virtue.  Pride  had  served  to  console  him  in 
sorrow,  and,  therefore,  it  was  a  friend  ;  it  had  supported  him 
when  disgusted  with  fraud,  or  in  resistance  to  violence,  and, 
therefore,  it  was  a  champion  and  a  fortress.  It  vvas  a  pride  of 
a  peculiar  sort — it  attached  itself  to  no  one  point  in  especial — 
not  to  talent,  knowledge,  mental  gifts — still  less  to  the  vulgar 
commonplaces  of  birth  and  fortune  ;  it  rather  resulted  from  a 
supreme  and  wholesale  contempt  of  all  other  men,  and  all  their 
objects — of  ambition — of  glory — of  the  hard  business  of  life. 
His  favorite  virtue  was  fortitude  ;  it  was  on  this  that  he  now 
mainly  valued  himself.  He  was  proud  of  his  struggles  against 
others — prouder  still  of  conquests  over  his  own  passions.  He 
looked  upon  fate  as  the  arch  enemy  against  whose  attacks  we 
should  ever  prepare.  He  fancied  that  against  fate  he  had 
thoroughly  schooled  himself.  In  the  arrogance  of  his  heart  he 
said,  "I  can  defy  the  future."  He  believed  in  the  boast  of  the 
vain  old  sage — "  I  am  a  world  to  myself  !  "  In  the  wild  career 
through  which  his  later  manhood  had  passed,  it  is  true  that  he 
had  not  carried  his  philosophy  into  a  rejection  of  the  ordinary 
world.  The  shock  occasioned  by  the  death  of  Florence  yielded 
gradually  to  time  and  change  ;  and  he  had  passed  from  the 
deserts  of  Africa  and  the  East  to  the  brilliant  cities  of  Europe. 
But  neither  his  heart  nor  his  reason  had  ever  again  been  en- 
slaved by  his  passions.  Never  again  had  he  known  the  soft- 
ness of  affection.  Had  he  done  so,  the  ice  had  been  thawed, 
and  the  fountain  had  flowed  once  more  into  the  great  deeps. 
He  had  returned  to  England  ;  he  scarce  knew  wherefore  or 
with  what  intent  ;  certainly  not  with  any  idea  of  entering  again 
upon  the  occupations  of  active  life  ; — it  was,  perhaps,  only  the 
weariness  of  foreign  scenes  and  unfamiliar  tongues,  and  the 
vague,  unsettled  desire  of  change,  that  brought  him  back  to 
the  fatherland.  But  he  did  not  allow  so  unphilosophical  a. 
cause  to  himself  ;  and,  what  was  strange,  he  would  not  allow 
one  much  more  amiable,  and  which  was,  perhaps,  the  truer 
cause — the  increasing  age  and  infirmities  of  his  old  guardian 
Cleveland,  who  prayed  him  affectionately  to  return.  Mal- 
travers did  not  like  to  believe  that  his  heart  was  still  so  kind. 
Singular  form  of  pride  !     No,  he  rather  sought  to  persuade 


66  ALICE  ;    OU,  THE  MYStERlES, 

himself  that  he  intended  to  sell  Burleigh,  to  arrange  his  affairs 
finally,  and  then  quit  for  ever  his  native  land.  To  prove  to 
himself  that  this  was  the  case,  he  had  intended  at  Dover  to 
hurry  at  once  to  Burleigh,  and  merely  write  to  Cleveland  that 
he  was  returned  to  England.  But  his  heart  would  not  suffer 
him  to  enjoy  this  cruel  luxury  of  self-mortification,  and  his 
horses'  heads  were  turned  to  Richmond  when  within  a  stage 
of  London.  He  had  spent  two  days  with  the  good  old  man, 
and  those  two  days  had  so  warmed  and  softened  his  feelings, 
that  he  was  quite  appalled  at  his  own  dereliction  from  fixed 
principles !  However,  he  went  before  Cleveland  luid  time  to 
discover  that  he  was  changed  ;  and  the  old  man  had  promised 
to  visit  him  shortly. 

This,  then,  was  the  state  of  Ernest  Maltravers,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-six — an  age  in  which  frame  and  mind  are  in  their  fullest 
perfection — an  age  in  which  men  begin  most  keenly  to  feel  that 
they  are  citizens.  With  all  his  energies  braced  and  strength- 
ened— with  his  mind  stored  with  profusest  gifts — in  the  vigor 
of  a  constitution  to  which  a  hardy  life  had  imparted  a  second 
and  fresher  youth — so  trained  by  stern  experience  as  to  redeem, 
with  an  easy  effort,  all  the  deficiencies  and  faults  which  had 
once  resulted  from  too  sensitive  an  imagination,  and  too  high  a 
standard  for  human  actions  ; — formed  to  render  to  his  race  the 
most  brilliant  and  durable  service,  and  to  secure  to  himself  the 
happiness  which  results  from  sobered  fancy — a  generous  heart, 
and  an  approving  conscience  ; — here  was  Ernest  Maltravers, 
backed,  too,  by  the  appliances  and  gifts  of  birth  and  fortune — 
perversely  shutting  up  genius,  life,  and  soul,  in  their  own  thorny 
leaves — and  refusing  to  serve  the  fools  and  rascals,  who  were 
formed  from  the  same  clay,  and  gifted  by  the  same  God. 
Morbid  and  morose  philosophy,  begot  by  a  proud  spirit  on  a 
lonely  heart  ! 

CHAPTER  V. 

"  Let  such  amongst  us  as  are  willing  to  be  children  again,  if  it  be  only  for 
an  hour,  resign  ourselves  to  the  sweet  enchantment  that  steals  upon  the  spirit 
when  it  indulges  in  the  memory  of  early  and  innocent  enjoyment." — D.  L. 
Richardson. 

At  dinner,  Caroline's  lively  recital  of  their  adventures  was 
received  with  much  interest,  not  only  bytheMerton  family,  but 
by  some  of  the  neighboring  gentry  who  shared  the  rector's 
hospitality.  The  sudden  return  of  any  proprietor  to  his  old 
hereditary  seat  after  a  prolonged  absence  makes  some  sensation 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  ^7 

in  a  provincial  neighborhood.  In  this  case,  where  the  proprie- 
tor was  still  young,  unmarried,  celebrated,  and  handsome,  the 
sensation  was  of  course  proportionably  increased.  Caroline 
and  Evelyn  were  beset  by  questions,  to  which  the  former  alone 
gave  any  distinct  reply.  Caroline's  account  was,  on  the  whole, 
gracious  and  favorable,  and  seemed  complimentary  to  all  but 
Evelyn,  who  thought  that  Caroline  was  a  very  indifferent  por- 
trait-painter. 

It  seldom  happens  that  a  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  neigh- 
borhood ;  but  Maltravers  had  been  so  little  in  the  county,  and 
in  his  former  visit  his  life  had  been  so  secluded,  that  he  was 
regarded  as  a  stranger.  He  had  neither  outshone  the  estab- 
lishment, nor  interfered  with  the  sporting,  of  his  fellow-squires  ; 
and,  on  the  whole,  they  made  just  allowance  for  his  habits  of 
distant  reserve.  Time,  and  his  retirement  from  the  busy  scene 
long  enough  to  cause  him  to  be  missed,  not  long  enough 
for  new  favorites  to  supply  his  place,  had  greatly  served  to 
mellow  and  consolidate  his  reputation,  and  his  country  was 
proud  to  claim  him.  Thus  (though  Maltravers  would  not  have 
believed  it,  had  an  angel  told  him)  he  was  not  spoken  ill  of 
behind  his  back  ;  a  thousand  little  anecdotes  of  his  personal 
habits,  of  his  generosity,  independence  of  spirit,  and  eccentric- 
ity, were  told.  Evelyn  listened  in  rapt  delight  to  all ;  she  had 
never  passed  so  pleasant  an  evening ;  and  she  smiled  almost 
gratefully  on  the  rector,  who  was  a  man  that  always  followed 
the  stream,  when  he  said  with  benign  affability,  "  We  must  really 
show  our  distinguished  neighbor  every  attention — we  must  be 
indulgent  to  his  little  oddities :  his  politics  are  not  mine,  to  be 
sure  :  but  a  man  who  has  a  slake  in  the  country  has  a  right  to 
his  own  opinion — that  was  always  my  maxim  : — thank  Heaven, 
I  am  a  very  moderate  man — we  must  draw  him  amongst  us:  it 
will  be  our  own  fault,  I  am  sure,  if  he  is  not  quite  domesticated 
at  the  rectory." 

"With  such  attraction — yes,"  said  the  thin  curate,  timidly 
bowing  to  the  ladies. 

"It  would  be  a  nice  match  for  Miss  Caroline,"  whispered  an 
old  lady ;  Caroline  overheard,  and  pouted  her  pretty  lip. 

The  whist-tables  were  now  set  out — the  music  begun — and 
Maltravers  was  left  in  peace. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Merton  rode  his  pony  over  to  Burleigh, 
Maltravers  was  not  at  home.  He  lefc  his  card,  and  a  note  of 
friendly  respect,  begging  Mr.  Maltravers  to  wave  ceremony,  and 
dine  with  them  the  next  day.  Somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  the 
rector  he  found  that  the  active  spirit  of  Maltravers  was  already 


6S  ALlCt  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

at  work.  The  long-deserted  grounds  were  filled  with  laborers  ; 
the  carpenters  were  busy  at  the  fences ;  the  house  looked  alive 
and  stirring  ;  the  grooms  were  exercising  the  horses  in  the  park  : 
all  betokened  the  return  of  the  absentee.  This  seemed  to  denote 
that  Maltravers  had  come  to  reside  ;  and  the  rector  thought  of 
Caroline  and  was  pleased  at  the  notion. 

The  next  day  was  Cecilia's  birthday ;  and  birthdays  were 
kept  at  Merton  Rectory : — the  neighboring  children  were 
invited.  They  were  to  dine  on  the  lawn,  in  a  large  marquee, 
and  to  dance  in  the  evening.  The  hothouses  yielded  their  early 
strawberries,  and  the  cows,  decorated  with  blue  ribands,  were 
to  give  syllabubs.  The  polite  Caroline  was  not  greatly  fasci- 
nated by  pleasure  of  this  kind  :  she  graciously  appeared  at 
dinner — kissed  the  prettiest  of  the  children — helped  tliem  to 
soup,  and  then,  having  done  her  duty,  retired  to  her  room  to 
write  letters.  The  children  were  not  sorry,  for  they  were  a 
little  afraid  of  the  grand  Caroline ;  and  they  laughed  much 
more  loudly,  and  made  much  more  noise,  when  she  was  gone — 
and  the  cakes  and  strawberries  appeared. 

Evelyn  was  in  her  element ;  she  had,  as  a  child,  mixed  so 
little  with  children — she  had  so  often  yearned  for  playmates — 
she  was  still  so  childlike  : — besides,  she  was  so  fond  of  Cecilia — • 
she  had  looked  forward  with  innocent  delight  to  the  day ;  and 
a  week  before  had  taken  the  carriage  to  the  neighboring  town, 
toreturn  with  a  carefully  concealed  basket  of  toys — dolls,  sashes, 
and  picture-books.  But  somehow  or  other  she  did  not  feel  so 
childlike  as  usual  that  morning ;  her  heart  was  away  from  the 
pleasure  before  her ;  and  her  smile  was  at  first  languid.  But 
in  children's  mirth  there  is  something  so  contagious  to  those 
who  love  children  ; — and  now,  as  the  party  scattered  themselves 
on  the  grass,  and  Evelyn  opened  the  basket  and  bade  them  with 
much  gravity  keep  quiet  and  be  good  children,  she  was  the 
happiestof  thewhole  group.  But  she  knew  how  to  give  pleasure  : 
and  the  basket  was  presented  to  Cecilia,  that  the  little  queen  of 
the  day  miglit  enjoy  the  luxury  of  being  generous ;  and  to 
preventjealousy  the  notable  expedient  of  a  lottery  was  suggested, 

"Then  Evy  shall  be  Fortune!"  cried  Cecilia;  "nobody  will 
be  sorry  to  get  anything  from  Evy — and  if  any  one  is  discon- 
tented, Evy  shan't  kiss  her." 

Mrs.  Merton,  whose  motherly  heart  was  completely  won  by 
Evelyn's  kindness  to  the  children,  forgot  all  her  husband's 
lectures,  and  willingly  ticketed  the  prizes  and  wrote  the  numbers 
of  the  lots  on  slips  of  paper  carefully  folded.  A  large  old  Indian 
jar  was  dragged  from  the  drawing-room  and  constituted  the 


Alice  ;  or,  the  mysterieis  6^ 

fated  urn — the  tickets  were  deposited  therein,  and  Ceciiia  was 
tying  the  handkerchief  round  Evelyn's  eyes — while  Fortune 
struggled  archly  not  to  be  as  blind  as  she  ought  to  be — and  the 
children,  seated  in  a  circle,  were  in  full  joy  and  expectation, 
when — there  was  a  sudden  pause — the  laughter  stopped — so  did 
Cissy's  little  hands. — What  could  it  be?  Evelyn  slipped  the 
bandage  and  her  eyes  rested  on  Maltravers  ! 

"Well,  really,  my  dear  Miss  Cameron,"  said  the  rector,  who 
was  by  the  side  of  the  intruder,  and  who,  indeed,  had  just 
brought  him  to  the  spot,  "I  don't  know  what  these  little  folks 
will  do  to  you  next." 

"I  ought  rather  to  be  their  victim,"  said  Maltravers,  good- 
humoredly ;  "  the  fairies  always  punish  us  grown-up  mortals 
for  trespassing  on  their  revels." 

While  he  spoke  his  eyes — those  eyes,  the  most  eloquent  in 
the  world — dwelt  on  Evelyn  (as,  to  cover  her  blushes,  she  took 
Cecilia  in  her  arms,  and  appeared  to  attend  to  nothing  else), 
with  a  look  of  such  admiration  and  delight  as  a  mortal  might 
well  be  supposed  to  cast  on  some  beautiful  fairy. 

Sophy,  a  very  bold  child,  ran  up  to  him,  "How  do,  sir?" 
she  lisped,  putting  up  her  face  to  be  kissed — "  How's  the  pretty 
peacock?" 

This  opportune  audacity  served  at  once  to  renew  the  charm 
that  had  been  broken — to  unite  the  stranger  with  the  children. 
Here  was  acquaintance  claimed  and  allowed  in  an  instant. 
The  next  moment  Maltravers  was  one  of  the  circle — on  the  turf 
with  the  rest — as  gay,  and  almost  as  noisy — that  hard,  proud 
man,  so  disdainful  of  the  trifles  of  the  world  ! 

"But  the  gentleman  must  have  a  prize,  too,"  said  Sophy, 
proud  of  her  tall  new  friend  :  "  what's  your  other  name? — why 
do  you  have  such  a  long,  hard  name?" 

"Call  me  Ernest,"  said  Maltravers. 

"Why  don't  we  begin?"  cried  the  children. 

"  Evy,  come,  be  a  good  child,  miss,"  said  Sophy,  as  Evelyn, 
vexed  and  ashamed,  and  half  ready  to  cry,  resisted  the  bandage. 

Mr.  Merton  interposed  his  authority;  but  the  children  clam- 
ored, and  Evelyn  hastily  yielded.  It  was  Fortune's  duty  to 
draw  the  tickets  from  the  urn,  and  give  them  to  each  claimant 
whose  name  was  called:  when  it  came  to  the  turn  of  Maltravers, 
the  bandage  did  not  conceal  the  blush  and  smile  of  the  enchant- 
ing goddess  ;  and  the  hand  of  the  aspirant  thrilled  as  it  touched 
hers. 

The  children  burst  into  screams  of  laughter  when  Cecilia 
gravely  awarded  to  Maltravers  the  worst  prize  in  the  lot — a 


)6  kttCt  }    Oft,  TTHE  JiVSTEfelES. 

blue  riband — which  Sophy,  however,  greedily  insisted  on  having ; 
but  Maltravers  would  not  yield  it. 

Maltravers  remained  all  day  at  the  rectory,  and  shared  in  the 
ball — yes,  he  danced  with  Evelyn — he — Maltravers — who  had 
never  been  known  to  dance  since  he  was  twenty-two  !  The  ice 
was  fairly  broken — Maltravers  was  at  home  with  the  Mertons. 
And  when  he  took  his  solitary  walk  to  his  solitary  house — over 
the  little  bridge  and  through  the  shadowy  wood — astonished, 
perhaps,  with  himself — every  one  of  the  guests,  from  the  oldest 
to  the  youngest,  pronounced  him  delightful.  Caroline,  perhaps, 
might  have  been  piqued  some  months  ago  that  he  did  not 
dance  with  /lerj  but  now,  her  heart — such  as  it  vvas — felt  pre- 
occupied. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  L'esprit  de  rhomme  est  plus  penetrant  que  consequent,  et  embrasse  plus 
qu'ilnepeut  Her."* — Vauvenargues. 

And  now  Maltravers  was  constantly  with  theMerton  family; 
there  was  no  need  of  excuse  for  familiarity  on  his  part.  Mr. 
Merton,  charmed  to  find  his  advances  not  rejected,  thrust  in- 
timacy upon  him. 

One  day  they  spent  the  afternoon  at  Burleigh,  and  Evelyn  and 
Caroline  finished  their  survey  of  the  house — tapestry  and  armor, 
pictures  and  all.  This  led  to  a  visit  to  the  Arabian  horses.  Caro- 
line observed  that  she  was  very  fond  of  riding,  and  went  into 
ecstasies  with  one  of  the  animals — the  one,  of  course,  with  the 
longest  tail.  The  next  day  the  horse  was  in  the  stables  at  the 
rectory,  and  a  gallant  epistle  apologized  for  the  costly  gift. 

Mr.  Merton  demurred,  but  Caroline  always  had  her  own  way; 
and  so  the  horse  remained  (no  doubt,  in  much  amazement  and 
disdain)  with  the  parson's  pony  and  the  brown  carriage  horses. 
The  gift  naturally  conduced  to  parties  on  horseback — it  was 
cruel  entirely  to  separate  the  Arab  from  his  friends — and  how 
was  Evelyn  to  be  left  behind? — Evelyn,  who  had  never  yet  rid- 
den anything  more  spirited  than  an  old  pony  ?  A  beautiful 
little  horse  belonging  to  an  elderly  lady — now  growing  too  stout 
to  ride,  was  to  be  sold  hard  by.  Maltravers  discovered  the  treas- 
ure, and  apprised  Mr.  Merton  of  it — he  was  too  delicate  to  affect 
liberality  to  the  rich  heiress.  The  horse  was  bought ;  nothing 
could  go  quieter — Evelyn  was  not  at  all  afraid.  They  made  two 
or  three  little  excursions.     Sometimes  only  Mr.  Merton  and  Mal- 

*  The  spirit  of  man  is  more  penetrating  than  logical,  and  gathers  more  than  it  can  gamer. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  71 

travers  accompanied  the  young  ladies — sometimes  the  party  was 
more  numerous.  Maltruvers  appeared  to  pay  equal  attention  to 
Caroline  and  her  friend — still  Evelyn's  inexperience  in  eques- 
trian matters  was  an  excuse  for  his  being  ever  by  her  side. 
They  had  a  thousand  opportunities  to  converse  ;  and  Evelyn 
now  felt  more  at  home  with  him  ;  her  gentle  gaiety,  her  fanci- 
ful yet  chastened  intellect,  found  a  voice.  Maltravers  was  not 
slow  to  discover  that  beneath  her  simplicity  there  lurked  sense, 
judgment,  and  imagination.  Insensibly  his  own  conversation 
took  a  higher  flight.  With  the  freedom  which  his  mature  years 
and  reputation  gave  him,  he  mingled  eloquent  instruction  with 
lighter  and  more  trifling  subjects  :  he  directed  her  earnest  and 
docile  mind,  not  only  to  new  fields  of  written  knowledge,  but  to 
many  of  the  secrets  of  nature — subtle  or  sublime.  He  had  a  wide 
range  of  scientific  as  well  as  literary  lore  : — the  stars,  the  flowers, 
the  phenomena  of  the  physical  world,  afforded  themes  on  which 
he  descanted  with  the  fervent  love  of  a  poet  and  the  easy  knowl- 
edge of  a  sage. 

Mr.  Merton,  observing  that  little  or  nothing  of  sentiment 
mingled  with  their  familiar  intercourse,  felt  perfectly  at  ease; 
and  knowing  that  Maltravers  had  been  intimate  with  Lumley, 
he  naturally  concluded  that  he  was  aware  of  the  engagement 
between  Evelyn  and  his  friend.  Meanwhile  Maltravers  appeared 
unconscious  that  such  a  being  as  Lord  Vargrave  existed. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  daily  presence — the  deli- 
cate flattery  of  attention  from  a  man  like  Maltravers — should 
strongly  impress  the  imagination,  if  not  the  heart,  of  a  suscepti- 
ble girl.  Already  prepossessed  in  his  favor,  and  wholly  unac- 
customed to  a  society  which  combined  so  many  attractions,  Eve- 
lyn regarded  him  with  unspeakable  veneration  ;  to  the  darker 
shades  in  his  character  she  was  blind — to  her,  indeed,  they  did 
not  appear.  True  that,  once  or  twice  in  mixed  society,  his  dis- 
dainful and  imperious  temper  broke  hastily  and  harshly  forth. 
To  folly — to  pretension — to  presumption — he  showed  but  slight 
forbearance.  The  impatient  smile,  the  biting  sarcasm,  the  cold 
repulse,  that  might  gall,  yet  could  scarce  be  openly  resented,  be- 
trayed that  he  was  one  who  affected  to  free  himself  from  the 
polished  restraints  of  social  intercourse.  He  had  once  been  too 
scrupulous  in  not  wounding  vanity  ;  he  was  now  too  indifferent 
to  it.  But  if  sometimes  this  unamiable  trait  of  character,  as 
displayed  to  others,  chilled  or  startled  Evelyn,  the  contrast  of 
his  manner  towards  herself  was  a  flattery  too  delicious  not  to 
efface  all  other  recollections.  To  her  ear  his  voice  always  soft- 
ened its  tone — to  her  capacity  his  mind  ever  bent  as  by  sympa,- 


72  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MASTERIES. 

thy — not  condescension  ;  to  her — the  young,  the  timid,  the  half- 
informed — to  her  alone  he  did  not  disdain  to  exhibit  all  the 
stores  of  his  knowledge — all  the  best  and  brightest  colors  of  his 
mind.  She  modestly  wondered  at  so  strange  a  preference.  Per- 
haps a  sudden  and  blunt  compliment  which  Maltravers  once 
addressed  to  her  may  explain  it :  one  day,  when  she  had  con- 
versed more  freely  and  more  fully  than  usual,  he  broke  in  upon 
her  with  this  abrupt  exclamation — 

**  Miss  Cameron,  you  must  have  associated  from  your  child- 
hood with  beautiful  minds.  I  see  already  that  from  the  world, 
vile  as  it  is,  you  have  nothing  of  contagion  to  fear.  1  have  heard 
you  talk  on  the  most  various  matters — on  many  of  which  your 
knowledge  is  imperfect ;  but  you  have  never  uttered  one  mean 
idea  or  one  false  sentiment.     Truth  seems  intuitive  to  you." 

It  was,  indeed,  this  singular  purity  of  heart  which  made  to 
the  world-wearied  man  the  chief  charm  in  Evelyn  Cameron. 
From  this  purity  came,  as  from  the  heart  of  a  poet,  a  thousand 
new  and  heaven-taught  thoughts,  which  had  in  them  a  wisdom 
of  their  own — thoughts  that  often  brought  the  stern  listener 
back  to  youth,  and  reconciled  him  with  life.  The  wise  Mal- 
travers learned  more  from  Evelyn  than  Evelyn  did  from  Mal- 
travers. 

There  was,  however,  another  trait — deeper  than  that  of  tem- 
per— in  Maltravers,  and  which  was,  unlike  the  latter,  more 
manifest  to  her  than  to  others  ;  his  contempt  for  all  the  things 
her  young  and  fresh  enthusiasm  had  been  taught  to  prize — the 
fame  that  endeared  and  hallowed  him  to  her  eyes — the  excite- 
ment of  ambition  and  its  rewards.  He  spoke  with  such  bitter 
disdain  of  great  names  and  great  deeds — "Children  of  a  larger 
growth  they  were,"  said  he,  one  day,  in  answer  to  her  defence 
of  the  luminaries  of  their  kind;  "  allured  by  baubles  as  poor  as  the 
rattle  and  the  doll's  house — how  many  have  been  made  great, 
as  the  word  is,  by  their  vices  !  Paltry  craft  won  command  to 
Themistocles.  To  escape  his  duns  the  profligate  Caesar  heads 
an  army  and  achieves  his  laurels.  Brutus,  the  aristocrat,  stabs 
his  patron,  that  patricians  might  again  trample  on  plebeians,  and 
that  posterity  might  talk  of  him.  The  love  of  posthumous 
fame — what  is  it  but  as  puerile  a  passion  for  notoriety  as  that 
which  made  a  Frenchman  I  once  knew  lay  out  two  thousand 
pounds  in  sugar-plums  ? — To  be  talked  of — how  poor  a  desire  ! 
Does  it  matter  whether  it  be  by  the  gossips  of  this  age  or  the 
next  ?  Some  men  are  urged  on  to  fame  by  poverty — that  is  an 
excuse  for  their  trouble  ;  but  there  is  no  more  nobleness  in  the 
TOQtive,  than  in  that  whigh  makes  yon  poor  ploughman  §weat  ia 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  73 

the  eye  of  Phoebus.  In  fact  the  larger  part  of  eminent  men,  in- 
stead of  being  inspired  by  any  lofty  desire  to  benefit  their  species 
or  enrich  the  human  mind,  have  acted  or  composed  without 
any  definite  object  beyond  the  satisfying  a  restless  appetite  for 
excitement,  or  indulging  the  dreams  of  a  selfish  glory.  And 
when  nobler  aspirations  have  fired  them,  it  has  too  often  been 
but  to  wild  fanaticism  and  sanguinary  crime.  What  dupes  of 
glory  ever  were  animated  by  a  deeper  faith,  a  higher  ambition, 
than  the  frantic  followers  of  Mahomet  ? — taught  to  believe  that 
it  was  virtue  to  ravage  the  earth,  and  that  they  sprang  from  the 
battlefield  into  Paradise.  Religion  and  liberty — love  of  coun- 
try— what  splendid  motives  to  action  !  Lo,  the  results,  when 
the  motives  are  keen — the  action  once  commenced  !  Behold 
the  Inquisition  ;  the  Days  of  Terror  ;  the  Council  of  Ten  ;  and 
the  Dungeons  of  Venice  !  " 

Evelyn  was  scarcely  fit  to  wrestle  with  these  melancholy  fal- 
lacies ;  but  her  instinct  of  truth  suggested  an  answer. 

'*  What  would  society  be  if  all  men  thought  as  you  do,  and 
acted  up  to  the  theory  !  No  literature,  no  art,  no  glory,  no  pa- 
triotism, no  virtue,  no  civilization  !  You  analyze  men's  mo- 
tives— how  can  you  be  sure  you  judge  rightly  ?  Look  to  the 
results — our  benefit,  our  enlightenment !  If  the  results  be  great. 
Ambition  is  a  virtue,  no  matter  what  motive  awakened  it.  Is 
it  not  so?" 

Evelyn  spoke  blushingly  and  timidly.  Maltravers,  despite 
his  own  tenets,  was  delighted  with  her  reply. 

"You  reason  well,"  said  he,  with  a  smile.  "But  how  are 
we  sure  that  the  results  are  such  as  you  depict  them  ?  Civ- 
ilization— enlightenment — they  are  vague  terms — hollow  sounds. 
Never  fear  that  the  world  will  reason  as  I  do.  Action  will  never 
be  stagnant  while  there  are  such  things  as  gold  and  power.  The 
vessel  will  move  on — let  the  galley-slaves  have  it  to  themselves. 
What  I  have  seen  of  life  convinces  me  that  progress  is  not  al- 
ways improvement.  Civilization  has  evils  unknown  to  the  sav- 
age state  ;  and  vice  versa.  Men  in  all  states  seem  to  have  much 
the  same  proportion  of  happiness.  We  judge  others  with  eyes 
accustomed  to  dwell  on  our  own  circumstances.  I  have  seen 
the  slave,  whom  we  commiserate,  enjoy  his  holiday  with  a  rapt- 
ure unknown  to  the  grave  freeman.  I  have  seen  that  slave  made 
free,  and  enriched  by  the  benevolence  of  his  master ;  and  he 
has  been  gay  no  more.  The  masses  of  men  in  all  countries  are 
much  the  same.  If  there  are  greater  comforts  in  the  hardy 
North,  Providence  bestows  a  fertile  earth  and  a  glorious  heaven, 
and  a  mind  susceptible  to  enjoyment  as  flowers  to  light,  on  the 


74  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

voluptuous  indulgence  of  the  Italian,  or  the  contented  apathy 
of  the  Hindoo.  In  the  mighty  organization  of  good  and  evil 
what  can  we  vain  individuals  effect?  They  who  labor  most, 
how  doubtful  is  their  reputation  ? — Who  shall  say  whether  Vol- 
taire or  Napoleon,  Cromwell  or  Caesar,  Walpole  or  Pitt,  has 
done  most  good  or  most  evil.  It  is  a  question  casuists  may  dis- 
pute on.  Some  of  us  think  that  poets  have  been  the  delight  and 
the  lights  of  men.  Another  school  of  philosophy  has  treated 
them  as  the  corrupters  of  the  species — panders  to  the  false  glory 
of  war,  to  the  effeminacies  of  taste,  to  the  pampering  of  the])as- 
sions  above  the  reason.  Nay,  even  those  who  have  effected  in- 
ventions that  change  the  face  of  the  earth — the  printing-press, 
gunpowder,  the  steam-engine, — men  hailed  as  benefactors  by 
the  unthinking  herd  or  tlie  would-be  sages — have  introduced 
ills  unknown  before  ;  adulterating  and  often  counterbalancing 
the  good.  Each  new  improvement  in  machinery  deprives  hun- 
dreds of  food.  Civilization  is  the  eternal  sacrifice  of  one  gene- 
ration to  the  next.  An  awful  sense  of  the  impotence  of  human 
agencies  has  crushed  down  the  sublime  aspirations  for  mankind 
which  I  once  indulged.  For  myself,  I  float  on  the  great  waters, 
without  pilot  or  rudder,  and  trust  passively  to  the  winds,  that 
are  the  breath  of  God." 

This  conversation  left  a  deep  impression  upon  Evelyn  ;  it 
inspired  her  with  a  new  interest  in  one  in  whom  so  many  noble 
qualities  lay  dulled  and  torpid  by  the  indulgence  of  a  self- 
sophistry,  which,  girl  as  she  was,  she  felt  wholly  unworthy  of  his 
powers.  And  it  was  this  error  in  Maltravers  that,  levelling  his 
superiority,  brought  him  nearer  to  her  heart.  Ah  !  if  she  could 
restore  him  to  his  race  ! — it  was  a  dangerous  desire — but  it  in- 
toxicated and  absorbed  her. 

Oh  !  how  sweetly  were  those  fair  evenings  spent — the  even- 
ings of  happy  June  !  And  then,  as  Maltravers  suffered  the  chil- 
dren to  tease  him  into  talk  about  the  wonders  he  had  seen  in 
the  regions  far  away,  how  did  the  soft  and  social  hues  of  his 
character  unfold  themselves  !  There  is  in  all  real  genius  so 
much  latent  playfulness  of  nature,  it  almost  seems  as  if  genius 
never  could  grow  old.  The  inscription  that  youth  writes  upon 
the  tablets  of  an  imaginative  mind  are,  indeed,  never  wholly  ob- 
literated— they  are  as  an  invisible  writing,  which  gradually  be- 
comes clear  in  the  light  and  warmth.  Bring  genius  familiarly 
with  the  young,  and  it  is  as  young  as  they  are.  Evelyn  did  not 
yet,  therefore,  observe  the  disparity  oi years  between  herself  and 
Maltravers.  But  the  disparity  of  knowledge  and  power  served 
for  the  present  tq  interdict  to  her  that  sweet  feeling  of  equality 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  75 

in  commune  without  which  love  is  rarely  a  very  intense  affec- 
tion in  women.  It  is  not  so  with  men.  But  by  degrees  she  grew 
more  and  more  familiar  with  her  stern  friend  ;  and  in  that  fa- 
miliarity there  was  perilous  fascination  to  Maltravers.  She  could 
laugh  him  at  any  moment  out  of  his  most  moody  reveries — con- 
tradict with  a  pretty  wilfulness  his  most  favorite  dogmas — nay, 
even  scold  him,  with  bewitching  gravity,  if  he  was  not  always 
at  the  comm.and  of  her  wishes — or  caprice.  At  this  time  it 
seemed  certain  that  Maltravers  would  fall  in  love  with  Evelyn; 
but  it  rested  on  more  doubtful  probabilities  whether  Evelyn 
would  fall  in  love  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*  *  *  "  Contrahe  vela 

Et  te  littoribus  cymba  propinqua  vehat." — SenecA.* 

"Has  not  Miss  Cameron  a  beautiful  countenance  ?  "said Mr. 
Merton  to  Maltravers,  as  Evelyn,  unconscious  of  the  compli- 
ment, sate  at  a  little  distance  bending  down  her  eyes  to  Sophy, 
who  was  weaving  daisy  chains  on  a  stool  at  her  knee,  and  whom 
she  was  telling  not  to  talk  loud — for  Merton  had  been  giving 
Maltravers  some  useful  information  respecting  the  management 
of  his  estate  ;  and  Evelyn  was  already  interested  in  all  that 
could  interest  her  friend.  She  had  one  excellent  thing  in 
woman,  had  Evelyn  Cameron  ;  despite  her  sunny  cheerfulness 
of  temper  she  wa.%quiet ;  and  she  had  insensibly  acquired,  under 
the  roof  of  her  musing  and  silent  mother,  the  habit  of  never 
disturbing  others.  What  a  blessed  secret  is  that  in  the  inter- 
course of  domestic  life  ! 

"  Has  not  Miss  Cameron  a  beautiful  countenance?" 

Maltravers  started  at  the  question — it  was  a  literal  translation 
of  his  own  thought  at  that  moment — he  checked  the  enthusiasm 
that  rose  to  his  lip,  and  calmly  re-echoed  the  word — 

"  Beautiful,  indeed  !  " 

"And  so  sweet-tempered  and  unaffected — she  has  been  ad- 
mirably brought  up.  I  believe  Lady  Vargrave  is  a  most  exem- 
plary woman.  Miss  Cameron  will,  indeed,  be  a  treasure  to  her 
betrothed  husband.     He  is  to  be  envied." 

"  Her  betrothed  husband  !  "  said  Maltravers,  turning  very 
pale. 

"  Yes ;  Lord  Vargrave.  Did  you  not  know  that  she  was 
engaged  to  him  from  her  childhood  ?     It  was  the  wish,  nay, 

*  Furl  your  sails,  and  let  the  next  boat  carry  you  to  the  shore. 


^6  ALICE  ;    OR,  tllE  kYSt ERTfeS. 

command,  of  the  late  lord,  who  bequeathed  her  his  vast  fof- 
tune,  if  not  on  that  condition,  at  least  on  that  understanding. 
Did  you  never  hear  of  this  before  ? " 

While  Mr.  Merton  spoke  a  sudden  recollection  returned  to 
Maltravers.  He  had  heard  Lumley  himself  refer  to  the  engage- 
ment, but  it  had  been  in  the  sick  chamber  of  Florence — little 
heeded  at  the  time,  and  swept  from  his  mind  by  a  thousand 
after-thoughts  and  scenes.     Mr.  Merton  continued  : 

"  We  expect  Lord  Vargrave  down  soon.  He  is  an  ardent 
lover,  I  conclude  ;  but  public  life  chains  him  so  much  to  Lon- 
don. He  made  an  admirable  speech  in  the  Lords  last  night ; 
at  least,  our  party  appear  to  think  so.  They  are  to  be  married 
when  Miss  Cameron  attains  the  age  of  eighteen." 

Accustomed  to  endurance,  and  skilled  in  the  proud  art  of 
concealing  emotion,  Maltravers  betrayed  to  the  eye  of  Mr.  Mer- 
ton no  symptom  of  surprise  or  dismay  at  this  intelligence.  If 
the  rector  had  conceived  any  previous  suspicion  that  Mal- 
travers was  touched  beyond  mere  admiration  for  beauty,  the 
suspicion  would  have  vanished,  as  he  heard  his  guest  coldly 
reply  : 

"I  trust  Lord  Vargrave  may  deserve  his  happiness.  But  to 
return  to  Mr.  Justis — you  corroborate  my  own  opinion  of  that 
smooth-spoken  gentleman." 

The  conversation  flowed  back  to  business.  At  last,  Mal- 
travers rose  to  depart. 

"Will  you  not  dine  with  us  to-day?"  said  the  hospitable  rec- 
tor. 

"  Many  thanks — no  ;  I  have  much  business  to  attend  to  at 
home  for  some  days  to  come." 

"Kiss  Sophy,  Mr.  Ernest — Sophy  very  good  girl  to-day.  Let 
the  pretty  butterfly  go,  because  Evy  said  it  was  cruel  to  put  it 
in  a  card-box — Kiss  Sophy." 

Maltravers  took  the  child  (whose  heart  he  had  completely 
won)  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  tenderly  ;  then,  advancing  to 
Evelyn,  he  held  out  his  hand,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
with  an  expression  of  deep  and  mournful  interest,  which  she 
could  not  understand. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Cameron  !  "  he  said,  and  his  lips 
quivered. 

Days  passed,  and  they  saw  no  more  of  Maltravers.  He  ex- 
cused himself  on  pretence,  now  of  business — now  of  other  en- 
gagements— from  all  the  invitations  of  the  rector,  Mr.  Merton, 
unsuspectingly,  accepted  the  excuse  ;  for  he  knew  that  Mal- 
travers was  necessarily  much  occupied. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  77 

His  arrival  had  now  spread  througliout  tlie  country ;  and 
such  of  his  equals  as  were  still  in  B — shire  hastened  to  offer  con- 
gratulations, and  press  hospitality.  Perhaps  it  was  the  desire  to 
make  his  excuses  to  Merton  valid,  which  prompted  the  master 
of  Burleigh  to  yield  to  the  other  invitations  that  crowded  on 
him.  But  this  was  not  all — Maltravers  acquired  in  the  neigh- 
borhood the  reputation  of  a  man  of  business.  Mr.  Justis  was 
abruptly  dismissed  ;  with  the  help  of  the  bailiff,  Maltravers  be- 
came his  own  steward.  His  parting  address  to  this  personage 
was  characteristic  of  the  mingled  harshness  and  justice  of 
Maltravers. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  as  they  closed  their  accounts,  "I  discharge 
you  because  you  are  a  rascal — there  can  be  no  dispute  about 
that :  you  have  plundered  your  owner,  yet  you  have  ground  his 
tenants,  and  neglected  the  poor.  My  villages  are  filled  with 
paupers — my  rent-roll  is  reduced  a  fourth — and  yet,  while  some 
of  my  tenants  appear  to  pay  nominal  rents  (why,  you  best 
know  !),  others  are  screwed  up  higher  than  any  man's  in  the 
county.  You  are  a  rogue,  Mr.  Justis — your  own  account-books 
show  it ;  and  if  I  send  them  to  a  lawyer,  you  would  have  to 
refund  a  sum  that  I  could  apply  very  advantageously  to  the 
rectification  of  your  blunders." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  conscience-stricken  and 
appalled, — "  I  hope  you  will  not  ruin  me  ;  indeed, — indeed,  if 
I  was  called  upon  to  refund,  I  should  go  to  gaol." 

"Make  yourself  easy,  sir.  It  is  just  that  I  should  suffer  as 
well  as  you.  My  neglect  of  my  own  duties  tempted  you  to 
roguery.  You  were  honest  under  the  vigilant  eye  of  Mr.  Cleve- 
land. Retire  with  your  gains  ;  if  you  are  quite  hardened,  no 
punishment  can  touch  you  ;  if  you  are  not,  it  is  punishment 
enough  to  stand  there  gray-haired,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
and  hear  yourself  called  a  rogue,  and  know  that  you  cannot 
defend  yourself — go  ! " 

Maltravers  next  occupied  himself  in  all  the  affairs  that  a 
mismanaged  estate  brought  upon  him.  He  got  rid  of  some  ten- 
ants— he  made  new  arrangements  with  others — he  called  labor 
into  requisition  by  a  variety  of  improvements — he  paid  minute 
attention  to  the  poor,  not  in  the  weakness  of  careless  and  indis- 
criminate charity,  by  which  popularity  is  so  cheaply  purchased, 
and  independence  so  easily  degraded  ;  no,  his  main  care  was  to 
stimulate  industry  and  raise  hope.  The  ambition  and  emula- 
tion that  he  so  vainly  denied  in  himself,  he  found  his  most  use- 
ful levers  in  the  humble  laborers  whose  characters  he  had  stud- 
ied, whose  condition  he  sought  to  make  themselves  desire  to 


■^8  ALICE  ;    ok,  THE   MYStERlES. 

elevate.  Unconsciously  his  whole  practice  began  to  refute  his 
theories.  The  abuses  of  the  old  Poor-Lavvs  were  rife  in  his 
neighborhood  ;  his  quick  penetration,  and,  perhaps,  his  impe- 
rious habits  of  decision,  suggested  to  him  many  of  the  best  pro- 
visions of  the  law  now  called  into  operation  ;  but  he  was  too 
wise  to  be  the  Philosopher  Square  of  a  system.  He  did  not 
attempt  too  much  ;  and  he  recognized  one  principle,  which,  as 
yet,  the  administrators  of  the  new  Poor-Laws  have  not  suffic- 
iently discovered.  One  main  object  of  the  new  code  was,  by 
curbing  public  charily,  to  task  the  activity  of  individual  benev- 
olence. If  the  proprietor  or  the  clergyman  find  under  his  own 
eye  isolated  instances  of  severity,  oppression,  or  hardship,  in 
a  general  and  salutary  law,  instead  of  railing  against  the  law, 
he  ought  to  attend  to  the  individual  instances  ;  and  private 
benevolence  ought  to  keep  the  balance  of  the  scales  even,  and 
be  the  makeweight  wherever  there  is  a  just  deficiency  of 
national  charity.*  It  was  this  which,  in  the  modified  and  dis- 
creet regulations  that  he  sought  to  establish  on  his  estates,  Mal- 
travers  especially  and  pointedly  attended  to.  Age,  infirmity, 
temporary  distress,  unmerited  destitution,  found  him  a  steady, 
watchful,  indefatigable  friend.  In  these  labors,  commenced 
with  extraordinary  promptitude,  and  the  energy  of  a  single  pur- 
pose and  stern  mind,  Maltravers  was  necessarily  brought  into 
contact  with  the  neighboring  magistrates  and  gentry.  He  was 
combating  evils  and  advancing  objects  in  which  all  were  in- 
terested ;  and  his  vigorous  sense,  and  his  past  parliamentary 
reputation,  joined  with  the  respect  which  in  provinces  always 
attaches  to  ancient  birth,  won  unexpected  and  general  favor  to 
his  views.  At  the  rectory  they  heard  of  him  constantly,  not 
only  through  occasional  visitors,  but  through  Mr.  Merton,  who 
was  ever  thrown  in  his  way  ;  but  he  continued  to  keep  himself 
aloof  from  the  house.  Every  one  (Mr.  Merton  excepted)  missed 
him  ;  even  Caroline,  whose  able  though  worldly  mind  could 
appreciate  his  conversation ;  the  children  mourned  for  their 
playmate,  who  was  so  much  more  affable  than  their  own  stiff- 
neckclothed  brothers ;  and  Evelyn  was  at  least  more  serious 
and  thoughtful  than  she  had  ever  been  before ;  and  the  talk  of 
others  seemed  to  her  wearisome,  trile,  and  dull. 

Was  Maltravers  happy  in  his  new  pursuits  ?  His  state  of 
mind  at  that  time  is  not  easy  to  read.  His  masculine  spiricand 
haughty  temper  were  wrestling  hard  against  a  feeling  that  had 

♦  The  object  of  parochial  reform  is  not  that  of  economy  alone  ;  not  merely  to  reduce 
poor-rates.  The  rate-payer  ought  to  remember,  that  the  more  he  .wrests  from  the  gripe 
of  the  sturdy  mendicant,  the  more  he  ought  to  bestow  on  undeserved  distress.  Without 
the  mitigations  of  private  virtue,  every  law  that  bcnevolists  could  make  would  be  harsh. 


ALICE  ;     OR,   THE     MYSTERIES.  79 

been  fast  ripening  into  passion  ;  but  at  night,  in  his  solitary 
and  cheerless  home,  a  vision,  too  exquisite  to  indulge,  would 
force  itself  upon  him,  till  he  started  from  the  revery  and  said  to 
his  rebellious  heart,  "  A  few  more  years,  and  thou  wilt  be 
still.  What  in  this  brief  life  is  a  pang  more  or  less  ?  Better  to 
have  nothing  to  care  for,  so  wilt  thou  defraud  Fate,  thy  deceit- 
ful foe  !     Be  contented  that  thou  art  alone  !  " 

Fortunate  was  it,  then,  for  Maltravers,  that  he  was  in  his  na- 
tive land!  not  in  climes  where  excitement  is  in  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure  rather  than  in  the  exercise  of  duties  !  In  the  hardy 
air  of  the  liberal  England  he  was  already,  though  unknown  to 
himself,  bracing  and  ennobling  his  dispositions  and  desires.  It 
is  the  boast  of  this  island,  that  the  slave  whose  foot  touches  the 
soil  is  free.  The  boast  may  be  enlarged.  Where  so  much  is 
left  to  the  people — where  the  life  of  civilization,  not  locked  up 
in  the  tyranny  of  Central  Despotism,  spreads,  vivifying,  restless, 
ardent,  through  every  vein  of  the  healthful  body,  the  most  dis- 
tant province,  the  obscurest  village,  has  claims  on  our  exertions, 
our  duties,  and  forces  us  into  energy  and  citizenship.  The 
spirit  of  liberty,  that  strikes  the  chain  from  the  slave,  binds  the 
freeman  to  his  brother.  This  is  the  Religion  of  Freedom.  And 
hence  it  is  that  the  stormy  struggles  of  free  states  have  been 
blessed  with  results  of  Virtue,  of  Wisdom,  and  of  Genius — by 
Him  who  bade  us  love  one  another — not  only  that  love  in 
itself  is  excellent,  but  that  from  love,  which  in  its  widest  sense 
is  but  the  spiritual  term  for  liberty,  whatever  is  worthiest  of  our 
solemn  nature  has  its  birth. 


8o  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 


BOOK   III. 

Tpax^a  ?[£iaivei,  itavei  Kdpov. 

Ex.  Solon  Ekg. 

Harsh  things  he  mitigates,  and  pride  subdues. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"You  still  are  what  you  were,  sir  ! 
*  *  »  » 

..."  With  most  quick  agility  could  turn 
And  return  ;  make  knots  and  undo  them — 
Give  forked  counsel." — Volpone,  or  the  Fox. 

Before  a  large  table,  covered  with  parliamentary  papers,  sate 
Lumley  Lord  Vargrave.  His  complexion,  though  still  healthy, 
had  faded  from  the  freshness  of  hue  which  distinguished  him  in 
youth.  His  features,  always  sharp,  had  grown  yet  more  angular: 
his  brows  seemed  to  project  more  broodingly  over  his  eyes, 
which,  though  of  undiminished  brightness,  were  sunk  deep  in 
their  sockets,  and  had  lost  much  of  their  quick  restlessness. 
The  character  of  his  mind  had  begun  to  stamp  itself  on  the 
physiognomy,  especially  on  the  mouth  when  in  repose, — it  was 
a  face,  striking  for  acute  intelligence — for  corcentrated  energy 
— but  there  was  a  something  written  in  it,  which  said — "Be- 
ware !  "  It  would  have  inspired  any  one,  who  had  mixed  much 
amongst  men,  with  a  vague  suspicion  and  distrust. 

Lumley  had  been  always  careful,  though  plain,  in  dress  ;  but 
there  was  now  a  more  evident  attention  bestowed  on  his  person 
than  he  had  ever  manifested  in  youth, — while  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  Roman's  celebrated  foppery  in  the  skill  with  which 
his  hair  was  arranged  on  his  high  forehead,  so  as  either  to 
conceal  or  relieve  a  partial  baldness  at  the  temples.  Perhaps, 
too,  from  the  possession  of  high  station,  or  the  habit  of  living 
only  amongst  the  great,  there  was  a  certain  dignity  insensibly 
diffused  over  his  whole  person,  that  was  not  noticeable  in  his 
earlier  years — when  a  certain  ton  de  garfiison  was  blended  with 
his  ease  of  manners  ;  yet,  even  now,  dignity  was  not  his  preva- 
lent characteristic  ;  and  in  ordinary  occasions,  or  mixed  society, 
he  still  found  a  familiar  frankness  a  more  useful  species  of 
simulation.  At  the  time  we  now  treat  of.  Lord  Vargrave  was 
leaning  his  cheek  on  one  hand,  while  tlie  other  rested  idly  on 
the  papers  methodically  arranged  before  him.     He  appeared 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  Si 

to  have  suspended  his  labors,  and  to  be  occupied  in  thought.  It 
was,  in  truth,  a  critical  period  in  the  career  of  Lord  Vargrave. 
From  the  date  of  his  accession  to  the  peerage,  the  rise  of 
I>umley  Ferrers  had  been  less  rapid  and  progressive  than  he 
himself  could  have  foreseen.  At  first,  all  was  sunshine  before 
him  ;  he  had  contrived  to  make  himself  useful  to  his  party — he 
had  also  made  himself  personally  popular.  To  the  ease  and 
cordiality  of  his  happy  address,  he  added  the  seemingly  care- 
less candor  so  often  mistaken  for  honesty  ;  while,  as  there  was 
nothing  showy  or  brilliant  in  his  abilities  or  oratory — nothing 
that  aspired  far  above  the  pretensions  of  others,  and  aroused 
envy  by  mortifying  self-love — he  created  but  little  jealousy  even 
amongst  the  rivals  before  whom  he  obtained  precedence.  For 
some  time,  therefore,  he  went  smoothly  on,  continuing  to  rise  in 
the  estimation  of  his  party,  and  commanding  a  certain  respect 
from  the  neutral  public,  by  acknowledged  and  eminent  talents 
in  the  details  of  business  ;  for  his  quickness  of  penetration,  and 
a  logical  habit  of  mind,  enabled  him  to  grapple  with  and 
generalize  the  minutias  of  official  labor,  or  of  legislative  enact- 
ments, with  a  masterly  success.  But  as  the  road  became 
clearer  to  his  steps,  his  ambition  became  more  evident  and 
daring.  Naturally  dictatorial  and  presumptuous,  his  early 
suppleness  to  superiors  was  now  exchanged  for  a  self-willed 
pertinacity,  which  often  displeased  the  more  haughty  leaders  of 
his  party,  and  often  wounded  the  more  vain.  His  pretensions 
were  scanned  with  eyes  more  jealous  and  less  tolerant  than  at 
first.  Proud  aristocrats  began  to  recollect  that  a  mushroom 
peerage  was  supported  but  by  a  scanty  fortune — the  men  of 
more  dazzling  genius  began  to  sneer  at  the  red-tape  minister  as 
a  mere  official  manager  of  details  ;  he  lost  much  of  the  personal 
popularity  which  had  been  one  secret  of  his  power.  But  what 
principally  injured  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  party  and  the  public, 
were  certain  ambiguous  and  obscure  circumstances  connected 
with  a  short  period,  when  himself  and  his  associates  were 
thrown  out  of  office.  At  this  time,  it  was  noticeable  that  the 
journals  of  the  Government  that  succeeded  were  peculiarly 
polite  to  Lord  Vargrave,  while  they  covered  all  his  coadjutors  • 
with  obloquy  ;  and  it  was  more  than  suspected  that  secret  negotia- 
tions between  himself  and  the  new  ministry  were  going  on, 
when,  suddenly,  the  latter  broke  up,  and  Lord  Vargrave's  proper 
party  were  reinstated.  The  vague  suspicions  that  attached 
to  Vargrave  were  somewhat  strengthened  in  the  opinion  of  the 
public,  by  the  fact  that  he  was  at  first  left  out  of  the  restored 
administration  ;  and  when  subsequently,  after  a  speech  which 


82  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

sliowed  tliat  he  could  be  mischievous  if  not  propitiated,  he  was 
readmitted, — it  was  precisely  to  the  same  office  he  had  held  be- 
fore— an  office  which  did  not  admit  him  into  the  Cabinet, 
Lumley,  burning  with  resentment,  longed  to  decline  the  offer; 
but,  alas!  he  was  poor;  and,  what  was  worse,  in  debt; — "his 
poverty,  but  not  his  will,  consented."  He  was  reiristated  ;  but 
though  prodigiously  improved  as  a  debater,  he  felt  that  he  had 
not  advanced  as  a  public  man.  His  ambition  inflamed  by  his 
discontent,  he  had,  since  his  return  to  office,  strained  every 
nerve  to  strengthen  his  position.  He  met  the  sarcasms  on  his 
poverty,  by  greatly  increasing  his  expenditure  ;  and  by  advertis- 
ing everywhere  his  engagement  to  an  heiress  whose  fortune, 
great  as  it  was,  he  easily  contrived  to  magnify.  As  his  old 
house  in  Great  George  Street — well  fitted  for  the  bustling 
commoner — was  no  longer  suited  to  the  official  and  fashionable 
peer,  he  had,  on  his  accession  to  the  title,  exchanged  that  re- 
spectable residence  for  a  large  mansion  in  Hamilton  Place  :  and 
his  sober  dinners  were  succeeded  by  splendid  banquets.  Natur- 
ally, he  had  no  taste  for  such  things  ;  his  mind  was  too  nervous, 
and  his  temper  too  hard,  to  take  pleasure  in  luxury  or  ostenta- 
tion. But  now,  as  ever — he  acted  upon  a  system.  Living  in  a 
country  governed  by  the  mightiest  and  wealthiest  aristocracy  in 
the  world,  which,  from  the  first  class  almost  to  the  lowest,  osten- 
tation pervades — he  felt  that  to  fall  far  short  of  his  rivals  in 
display  was  to  give  them  an  advantage  which  he  could  not 
compensate,  either  by  the  power  of  his  connections  or  the  sur- 
passing loftiness  of  his  character  and  genius.  Playing  for  a 
great  game,  and  with  his  eyes  open  to  all  the  consequences,  he 
cared  not  for  involving  his  private  fortunes  in  a  lottery  in 
which  a  great  prize  might  be  drawn.  To  do  Vargrave  justice, 
money  with  him;  had  never  been  an  object,  but  a  means — he 
was  grasping,  but  not  avaricious.  If  men  much  richer  than 
Lord  Vargrave  find  state  distinctions  very  expensive,  and  often 
ruinous,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  his  salary,  joined  to  so 
moderate  a  private  fortune,  could  support  the  style  in  which  he 
lived.  His  income  was  already  deeply  mortgaged,  and  debt 
accumulated  upon  debt.  Nor  had  this  man,  so  eminent  for  the 
management  of  public  business,  any  of  that  talent  which  springs 
horn  justice,  and  makes  its  possessor  a  skilful  manager  of  his  own 
affairs.  Perpetually  absorbed  in  intrigues  and  schemes,  he  was 
too  much  engaged  in  cheating  others  on  a  large  scale,  to  have 
time  to  prevent  being  himself  cheated  on  a  small  one.  He 
never  looked  into  bills  till  he  was  compelled  to  pay  them  ;  and 
he  neyer  calculated  the  amount  Qi  ap  expense  that  seemed  the 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  83 

lease  necessary  to  his  purposes.  But  still  Lord  Vargrave  relied 
upon  his  marriage  with  the  wealthy  Evelyn  to  relieve  him  from 
all  his  embarrassments  ;  and  if  a  doubt  of  the  realization  of 
that  vision  ever  occurred  to  him,  still  public  life  had  splendid 
prizes.  Nay,  should  he  fail  with  Miss  Cameron,  he  even  thought 
that,  by  good  management,  he  might  ultimately  make  it  worth 
while  to  his  colleagues  to  purchase  his  absence  with  the  gorgeous 
bribe  of  the   Governor-Generalship  of  India. 

As  oratory  is  an  art  in  which  practice  and  the  dignity  of 
station  produce  marvellous  improvement,  so  Lumley  had  of  late 
made  effects  in  the  House  of  Lords  of  which  he  had  once  been 
judged  incapable.  It  is  true  that  no  practice  and  no  station 
can  give  men  qualities  in  which  they  are  wholly  deficient ;  but 
these  advantages  can  bring  out  in  the  best  light  all  the  qualities 
they  do  possess.  The  glow  of  a  generous  imagination — the 
grasp  of  a  profound  statesmanship — the  enthusiasm  of  a  noble 
nature — these  no  practice  could  educe  from  the  eloquence  of 
Lumley  Lord  Vargrave,  for  he  had  them  not  :  but  bold  wit — 
fluent  and  vigorous  sentences — effective  arrangement  of  parlia- 
mentary logic — readiness  of  retort — plausibility  of  manner,  aided 
by  a  delivery  peculiar  for  self-possession  and  ease — a  clear  and 
ringing  voice  (to  the  only  fault  of  which,  shrillness  without 
passion,  the  ear  of  the  audience  had  grown  accustomed) — and 
a  countenance  impressive  from  its  courageous  intelligence,— 
all  these  had  raised  the  promising  speaker  into  the  matured 
excellence  of  a  nervous  and  formidable  debater.  But  precisely 
as  he  rose  in  the  display  of  his  talents,  did  he  awaken  envies 
and  enmities  hitherto  dormant.  And  it  must  be  added,  that, 
with  all  his  craft  and  coldness.  Lord  Vargrave  was  often  a  very 
dangerous  and  mischievous  speaker  for  the  interests  of  his 
party.  His  colleagues  had  often  cause  to  tremble  when  he 
rose ;  nay,  even  when  the  cheers  of  his  own  faction  shook  tlie 
old  tapestried  walls.  A  man  who  has  no  sympathy  with  the 
public  must  commit  many  and  fatal  indiscretions  when  the 
public,  as  well  as  his  audience,  is  to  be  his  judge.  Lord  Var- 
grave's  utter  incapacity  to  comprehend  political  morality — his 
contempt  for  all  the  objects  of  social  benevolence — frequently 
led  him  into  the  avowal  of  doctrines  which,  if  they  did  not 
startle  the  men  of  the  world  whom  he  addressed  (smoothed 
away,  as  such  doctrines  were,  by  speciousness  of  manner  and 
delivery),  created  deep  disgust  in  those,  even  in  his  own  politics, 
who  read  their  naked  exposition  in  the  daily  papers.  Never 
did  Lord  Vargrave  utter  one  of  those  generous  sentiments 
which,  no  matter  whether  propounded  by  Radical  or  Tory,  sink 


$4  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

deep  into  the  heart  of  the  people,  and  do  lasting  service  to  the 
cause  they  adorn.  But  no  man  defended  an  abuse,  however 
glaring,  with  a  more  vigorous  championship,  or  hurled  defiance 
upon  a  popular  demand  withamore  courageous  scorn.  In  some 
times,  when  the  anti-popular  principle  is  strong,  such  a  leader 
may  be  useful  ;  but  at  the  moment  of  which  we  treat,  he  was  a 
most  equivocal  auxiliary.  A  considerable  proportion  of  the 
ministers,  headed  by  the  Premier  himself,  a  man  of  wise  views 
and  unimpeachable  honor,  had  learned  to  view  Lord  Vargrave 
with  dislike  and  distrust — they  might  have  sought  to  get  rid  of 
him  ;  but  he  was  not  one  whom  slight  mortifications  could  in- 
duce to  retire  of  his  own  accord  ;  nor  was  the  sarcastic  and 
bold  debater  a  person  whose  resentment  and  opposition  could 
be  despised.  Lord  Vargrave,  moreover,  had  secured  a  party  of 
his  own — a  party  more  formidable  than  himself.  He  went 
largely  into  society — he  was  the  special  favorite  of  the  female 
diplomats,  whose  voices  at  that  time  were  powerful  suffrages, 
and  with  whom,  by  a  thousand  links  of  gallantry  and  intrigue, 
the  agreeable  and  courteous  minister  formed  a  close  alliance. 
All  that  salons  could  do  for  him  was  done.  Added  to  this,  he 
was  personally  liked  by  his  royal  master ;  and  the  Court  gave 
him  their  golden  opinions  ;  while  the  poorer,  the  corrupter,  and 
the  more  bigoted  portion  of  the  ministry  regarded  him  with 
avowed  admiration. 

In  the  House  of  Commons,  too,  and  in  the  Bureaucracy,  he 
had  no  inconsiderable  strength  ;  for  Lumley  never  contracted 
the  habits  of  personal  abruptness  and  discourtesy  common  to 
men  in  power,  who  wish  to  keep  applicants  aloof.  He  was  bland 
and  conciliating  to  all  men  of  all  ranks :  his  intellect  and  self- 
complacency  raised  him  far  above  the  petty  jealousies  that  great 
men  feel  for  rising  men.  Did  any  tyro  earn  the  smallest  dis- 
tinction in  parliament,  no  man  sought  his  acquaintance  so  eagerly 
as  Lord  Vargrave  ;  no  man  complimented,  encouraged, "  brought 
on  "  the  new  aspirants  of  his  party,  with  so   hearty  a  good-will. 

Such  a  minister  could  not  fail  of  having  devoted  followers 
among  the  able,  the  ambitious,  and  the  vain.  It  must  also  be 
confessed  that  Lord  Vargrave  neglected  no  baser  and  less 
justifiable  means  to  cement  his  power,  by  placing  it  on  the  sure 
rock  of  self-interest.  No  jobbing  was  too  gross  for  him.  He 
was  shamefully  corrupt  in  the  disposition  of  his  patronage  ;  and 
no  rebuffs,  no  taunts  from  his  official  brethren,  could  restrain 
him  from  urging  the  claims  of  any  of  his  creatures  upon  the 
public  purse.  His  followers  regarded  this  charitable  selfishness 
as  the  stanchness  and  ?eal  of  friendship ;  and  the  ambition  of 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  85 

hundreds  was  wound  up  in  the  ambition  of  the  unprincipled 
minister. 

But  besides  the  notoriety  of  his  public  corruption,  Lord  Var- 
grave  was  secretly  suspected  by  some  of  personal  dishonesty — 
suspected  of  selling  his  state  information  to  stock-jobbers — of 
having  pecuniary  interests  in  some  of  the  claims  he  urged  with 
so  obstinate  a  pertinacity.  And  though  there  was  not  the 
smallest  evidence  of  such  utter  abandonment  of  honor  ;  though 
it  was  probably  but  a  calumnious  whisper  ;  yet  the  mere  sus- 
picion of  such  practices  served  to  sharpen  the  aversion  of  his 
enemies,  and  justify  the  disgust  of  his  rivals. 

In  this  position  now  stood  Lord  Vargrave  ;  supported  by 
interested,  but  able  and  powerful  partisans  ;  hated  in  the  country, 
feared  by  some  of  those  whom  he  served,  despised  by  others, 
looked  up  to  by  the  rest.  It  was  a  situation  that  less  daunted 
than  delighted  him  ;  for  it  seemed  to  render  necessary  and  ex- 
cuse the  habits  of  scheming  and  manoeuvre  which  were  so  genial 
to  his  crafty  and  plotting  temper.  Like  an  ancient  Greek,  his 
spirit  loved  intrigue  for  intrigue's  sake.  Had  it  led  to  no  end, 
it  would  still  have  been  sweet  to  him  as  a  means.  He  rejoiced 
to  surround  himself  with  the  most  complicated  webs  and 
meshes  ;  to  sit  in  the  centre  of  a  million  plots.  He  cared  not 
how  rash  and  wild  some  of  them  were.  He  relied  on  his  own 
ingenuity,  promptitude,  and  habitual  good  fortune,  to  make 
every  spring  he  handled  conducive  to  the  purpose  of  the 
machine — self. 

His  last  visit  to  Lady  Vargrave,  and  his  conversation  with 
Evelyn,  had  left  on  his  mind  much  dissatisfaction  and  fear.  In 
the  earlier  years  of  his  intercourse  with  Evelyn,  his  good-humor, 
gallantry,  and  presents  had  not  failed  to  attach  the  child  to  the 
agreeable  and  liberal  visitor  she  had  been  taught  to  regard  as  a 
relation.  It  was  only  as  she  grew  up  to  womanhood,  and 
learned  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  tie  between  them,  that 
she  shrunk  from  his  familiarity  ;  and  then  only  had  he  learned 
to  doubt  of  the  fulfilment  of  his  uncle's  wish.  The  last  visit 
had  increased  this  doubt  to  a  painful  apprehension  ;  he  saw 
that  he  was  not  loved  ;  he  saw  that  it  required  great  address, 
and  the  absence  of  happier  rivals,  to  secure  to  him  the  hand  of 
Evelyn  ;  and  he  cursed  the  duties  and  the  schemes  which  neces- 
sarily kept  him  from  her  side.  He  had  thought  of  persuading 
Lady  Vargrave  to  let  her  come  to  London,  where  he  could  be 
ever  at  hand  ;  and  as  the  season  was  now  set  in,  his  representa- 
tions on  this  head  would  appear  sensible  and  just.  But  then  again, 
^his  was  to  incur  greater  gangers  than  those  he  would  ^voitj. 


86  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

London  ! — a  beauty  and  an  heiress,  in  her  first  d^but  in  Lon- 
don ! — What  formidable  admirers  would  flock  around  her  ! 
Vargrave  shuddered  to  think  of  the  gay.  handsome,  well-dressed, 
seductive  young  degans,  who  might  seem,  to  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
suitors  far  more  fascinating  than  the  middle-aged  politician. 
This  was  perilous  ;  nor  was  this  all  ;  Lord  Vargrave  knew  that 
in  London — gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  London — all  that 
he  could  most  wish  to  conceal  from  the  young  lady  would  be 
dragged  to  day.  He  had  been  the  lover,  not  of  one,  but  of  a 
dozen  women,  for  whom  he  did  not  care  three  straws  ;  but 
whose  favor  had  served  to  strengthen  him  in  society  ;  or  whose 
influence  made  up  for  his  own  want  of  hereditary  political  con- 
nections. The  manner  in  which  he  contrived  to  shake  off  these 
various  Ariadnes,  whenever  it  was  advisable,  was  not  the  least 
striking  proof  of  his  diplomatic  abilities.  He  never  left  them 
enemies.  According  to  his  own  solution  of  the  mystery,  he  took 
care  never  to  play  the  gallant  with  Dulcineas  under  a  certain 
age — "middle-aged  women,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "are  very 
little  different  from  middle-aged  men  ;  they  see  things  sensibly, 
and  take  them  coolly."  Now  Evelyn  could  not  be  three  weeks, 
perhaps  three  days,  in  London,  without  learning  of  one  or  the 
other  of  these  liaisons.  What  an  excuse,  if  she  sought  one,  to 
break  with  him  !  Altogether,  Lord  Vargrave  was  sorely  per- 
plexed, but  not  despondent.  Evelyn's  fortune  was  more  than 
ever  necessary  to  him,  and  Evelyn  he  was  resolved  to  obtain, 
since  to  that  fortune  she  was  an  indispensable  appendage. 


CHAPTER  IL 
"  You  shall  be  Horace,  and  TibulJus  I." — Pope. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  disturbed  from  his  revery  by  the 
entrance  of  the  Earl  of  Saxingham. 

"You  are  welcome!"  said  Lumley,  "welcome! — the  very 
man  I  wished  to  see." 

Lord  Saxingham,  who  was  scarcely  altered  since  we  met  with 
him  in  the  last  series  of  this  work,  except  that  he  had  grown 
somewhat  paler  and  thinner,  and  that  his  hair  had  changed 
from  iron-gray  to  snow-white,  threw  himself  in  the  armchair 
beside  Lumley,  and  replied  : 

"  Vargrave,  it  is  really  unpleasant,  our  finding  ourselves  always 
thus  controlled  by  our  own  partisans.  I  do  not  understand  this 
new-fangled  policy — this  squaring  of  measures,  to  please  the  oppo- 


ALlCe  ;    oil,  THE   MYSTERIES.  87 

sition,  and  throw  sops  to  that  many-headed  monster  called  Public 
Opinion.     I  am  sure  it  will  end  most  mischievously." 

"I  am  satisfied  of  it,"  returned  Lord  Vargrave.     "All  vigor 

and  union  seem  to  have  left  us  :  and  if  they  carry  the ■ 

question  against  us,  I  know  not  what  is  to  be  done." 

"  For  my  part  I  shall  resign,"  said  Lord  Saxingham  dog- 
gedly ;  "  it  is  the  only  alternative  left  to  men  of  honor." 

"  You  are  wrong — I  know  another  alternative." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Make  a  Cabinet  of  our  own.  Look  ye,  my  dear  lord  ;  you 
have  been  ill-used — your  high  character,  your  long  experience, 
are  treated  with  contempt.  It  is  an  affront  to  you — the  situa- 
tion you  hold.  You  Privy  Seal ! — you  ought  to  be  Premier — 
ay,  and  if  you  are  ruled  by  me.  Premier  you  shall  be  yet." 

Lord  Saxingham  colored,  and  breathed  hard. 

"You  have  often  hinted  at  this  before,  Lumley  ;  but  you  are 
so  partial,  so  friendly." 

"  Not  at  all.     You  saw  the  leading  article  in  the to  day  ? — 

that  will  be  followed  up  by  two  evening  papers  within  five  hours 
of  this  time.  We  have  strength  with  the  Press,  with  the  Com- 
mons, with  the  Court — only  let  us  hold  fast  together.     This 

question,    by  which  they   hope    to  get   rid   of  us,  shall 

destroy  them.  You  shall  be  Prime-minister  before  the  year  is 
over — by  Heaven,  you  shall ! — and  then,  I  suppose,  /  too  may 
be  admitted  to  the  Cabinet !  " 

"But  how — how,  Lumley? — you  are  too  rash,  too  daring." 

"It  has  not  been  my  fault  hitherto — but  boldness  is  caution 
in  our  circumstances.  If  they  throw  us  out  now,  I  see  the 
inevitable  march  of  events — we  shall  be  out  for  years,  perhaps 
for  life.  The  Cabinet  will  recede  more  and  more  from  our 
principles,  our  party.  Now  is  the  time  for  a  determined  stand — 
now  can  we  make  or  mar  ourselves.  I  will  not  resign — the 
King  is  with  us — our  strength  shall  be  known.  These  haughty 
imbeciles  shall  fall  in  the  trap  they  have  dug  for  us." 

Lumley  spoke  warmly,  and  with  the  confidence  of  a  mind 
firmly  assured  of  success.  LordSaxingham  was  moved — bright 
visions  flashed  across  him — the  premiership — a  dukedom.  Yet 
he  was  old  and  childless,  and  his  honors  would  die  with  the  last 
Lord  of  Saxingham  ! 

"  See,"  continued  Lumley,  "  I  have  calculated  our  resources 
as  accurately  as  an  electioneering  agent  would  cast  up  the  list 

of  voters.     In  the  Press,  I  have  secured and ;  and  in 

the  Commons  we  have  the  subtle ,  and  the  vigor  of , 

and  the  popular  name  of ,  and  all  the  boroughs  of j 


88  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

in  the  Cabinet  we  have ,  and    at  Court   you   know   our 

strength.  Let  us  choose  our  moment — a  sudden  coup — an  inter- 
view with  the  King — a  statement  of  our  conscientious  scruples 
to  this  atrocious  measure.  I  know  the  vain,  stiff  mind  of  the 
Premier  ;  he  will  lose  temper — he  will  tender  his  resignation — 
to  his  astonishment  it  will  be  accepted.  You  will  be  sent  for — 
we  will  dissolve  Parliament — we  will  strain  every  nerve  in  the 
elections — we  shall  succeed,  I  know  we  shall.  But  be  silent 
in  the  mean  while — be  cautious  :  let  riot  a  word  escape  you — 
let  them  think  us  beaten — lull  suspicion  asleep — let  us  lament  our 
weakness,  and  hint,  only  hint  at  our  resignation,  but  with  assur- 
ances of  continued  support.  I  know  how  to  blind  them,  if  you 
leave  it  to  me." 

The  weak  mind  of  the  old  earl  was  as  a  puppet  in  the  hands 
of  his  bold  kinsman.  He  feared  one  moment,  hoped  another — 
now  his  ambition  was  flattered — now  his  sense  of  honor  was 
alarmed.  There  was  something  in  Lumley's  intrigue  to  oust 
the  government  with  which  he  served,  that  had  an  appearance 
of  cunning  and  baseness,  of  which  Lord  Saxingham,  whose  per- 
sonal character  was  high,  by  no  means  approved.  But  Vargrave 
talked  him  over  with  consummate  address,  and  when  they 
parted  the  earl  carried  his  head  two  inches  higher — he  was 
preparing  himself  for  his  rise  in  life. 

"That  is  well — that  is  well !"  said  Lumley,  rubbing  his  hands 
when  he  was  left  alone  ;  "  the  old  driveller  will  be  my  locum 
ienens,  till  years  and  renown  enable  me  to  become  his  successor. 
Meanwhile,  I  shall  be  really  what  he  is  in  name." 

Here  Lord  Vargrave's  well-fed  servant,  now  advanced  to  the 
dignity  of  own  gentleman  and  house-steward,  entered  the  room 
with  a  letter  ;  it  had  a  portentous  look — it  was  wafered — the 
paper  was  blue,  the  hand  clerklike — there  was  no  envelope — it 
bore  its  infernal  origin  on  the  face  of  it — it  was  a  dun's  ! 

Lumley  opened  the  epistle  with  an  impatient  pshaw  !  The 
man,  a  silversmith  (Lumley's  plate  was  much  admired  !),  had 
applied  for  years  in  vain  ;  the  amount  was  large — an  execution 
was  threatened  ! — an  execution  ! — it  is  a  trifle  to  a  rich  man  : 
but  no  trifle  to  one  suspected  of  being  poor — one  straining 
at  that  very  moment  at  so  high  an  object — one  to  whom  public 
opinion  was  so  necessary — one  who  knew  that  nothing  but  his 
title,  and  scarcely  that,  saved  him  from  the  reputation  of  an 
adventurer  !  He  must  again  have  recourse  to  the  money-lend- 
ers— his  small  estate  was  long  since  too  deeply  mortgaged  to 
afford  new  security.  Usury,  usury,  again  ! — he  knew  its  price, 
and  he  sighed — but  what  was  to  be  done  ? 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  89 

"  It  Is  but  for  a  few  months,  a  few  months,  and  Evelyn  must 
be  mine.  Saxingham  has  already  lent  me  what  he  can  ;  but 
he  is  embarrassed.  This  d — d  office,  what  a  tax  it  is  !  and  the 
rascals  say  we  are  too  well  paid  !  I,  too,  who  could  live  happy  in 
a  garret,  if  this  purse-proud  England  would  but  allow  one  to 
exist  within  one's  income. — My  fellow-trustee,  the  banker,  my 
uncle's  old  correspondent — ah,  well  thought  of !  He  knows 
the  conditions  of  the  will — he  knows  that,  at  the  worst,  I  must 
have  thirty  thousand  pounds  if  I  live  a  few  months  longer.  I 
will  go  to  him." 

CHAPTER  in. 
*'  Animum  nunc  hoc  celerem,  nunc  dividit  illuc."  * — Virgil. 

The  late  Mr.  Templeton  had  been  a  banker  in  a  provincial 
town,  which  was  the  centre  of  great  commercial  and  agricul- 
tural activity  and  enterprise.  He  had  made  the  bulk  of  his 
fortune  in  the  happy  days  of  paper  currency  and  war.  Besides 
his  country  bank,  he  had  a  considerable  sliare  in  a  metropolitan 
one  of  some  eminence.  At  the  time  of  his  marriage  with  the 
present  Lady  Vargrave  he  retired  altogether  from  business,  and 
never  returned  to  the  place  in  which  his  wealth  had  been 
amassed.  He  had  still  kept  up  a  familiar  acquaintance  with 
the  principal  and  senior  partner  of  the  metropolitan  bank  I  have 
referred  to  ;  for  he  was  a  man  who  always  loved  to  talk  about 
money  matters  with  those  who  understood  them.  This  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Gustavus  Douce,  had  been  named,  with  Lumley,  joint 
trustee  to  Evelyn's  fortune.  They  had  full  powers  to  invest  it 
in  whatever  stock  seemed  most  safe  or  advantageous.  The 
trustees  appeared  well  chosen  ;  as  one,  being  destined  to  share 
the  fortune,  would  have  the  deepest  interest  in  its  security  ;  and 
the  other,  from  his  habits  and  profession,  would  be  a  most  ex- 
cellent adviser. 

Of  Mr.  Douce,  Lord  Vargrave  had  seen  but  little  ;  they  were 
not  thrown  together.  But  Lord  Vargrave,  who  thought  every 
rich  man  might,  some  time  or  other,  become  a  desirable  ac- 
quaintance, regularly  asked  him  once  every  year  to  dinner ; 
and  twice  in  return  he  had  dined  with  Mr.  Douce,  in  one  of  the 
most  splendid  villas,  and  off  some  of  the  most  splendid  plate 
it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to  witness  and  to  envy  ! — so  that 
the  little  favor  he  was  about  to  ask  was  but  a  slight  return  for- 
Lord  Vargrave's  condescension. 

He  found  the  banker  in  his  private  sanctum — his  carriage  at 

♦  Now  this,  now  that,  distracts  the  active  mind. 


9©  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  door — for  it  was  just  four  o'clock,  an  hour  in  which  Mr. 
Douce  regularly  departed  to  Caserta,  as  his  aforesaid  villa  was 
somewhat  affectedly  styled. 

Mr.  Douce  was  a  small  man,  a  nervous  man — he  did  notseentj 
quite  master  of  his  own  limbs  ;  when  he  bowed,  he  seemed  to 
be  making  you  a  present  of  his  legs  ;  when  he  sate  down,  he 
twitched  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other — thrust  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  then  took  them  out,  and  looked  at  them,  as  if  in 
astonishment — then  seized  upon  a  pen,  by  which  they  were 
luckily  provided  with  incessant  occupation.  Meanwhile,  there 
was  what  might  fairly  be  called  a  constant  play  of  countenance  : 
first,  he  smiled,  then  looked  grave — now  raised  his  eyebrows, 
till  they  rose  like  rainbows,  to  the  horizon  of  his  pale,  straw- 
colored  hair — and  next  darted  them  down,  like  an  avalanche, 
over  the  twinkling,  restless,  fluttering,  little  blue  eyes,  which 
then  became  almost  invisible.  Mr.  Douce  had,  in  fact,  all  the 
appearance  of  a  painfully  shy  man  ;  which  was  the  more 
strange,  as  he  had  the  reputation  of  enterprise,  and  even  audac- 
ity, in  the  business  of  his  profession,  and  was  fond  of  the  society 
of  the  great. 

"I  have  called  on  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Lord  Vargrave, 
after  the  preliminary  salutations,  "  to  ask  a  little  favor,  which, 
if  the  least  inconvenient,  have  no  hesitation  in  refusing.  You 
know  how  I  am  situated  with  regard  to  my  ward.  Miss  Cam- 
eron ;  in  a  few  months  I  hope  she  will  be  Lady  Vargrave." 

Mr.  Douce  showed  three  small  teeth,  which  were  all  that  in 
the  front  of  his  mouth  fate  had  left  him  ;  and  then,  as  if  alarmed 
at  the  indelicacy  of  a  smile  on  such  a  subject,  pushed  back  his 
chair,  and  twitched  up  his  blotting-paper  colored  trousers. 

"  Yes,  in  a  few  months  I  hope  she  will  be  Lady  Vargrave ; 
and  you  know  then,  Mr.  Douce,  that  I  shall  be  in  no  want  of 
money." 

"  I  hope — that  is  to  say,  I  am  sure — that — I  trust  that  never 
will  be  the  ca-ca-case  with  your  lordship,"  put  in  Mr.  Douce,  with 
timid  hesitation.  Mr.  Douce,  in  addition  to  his  other  good 
qualities,  stammered  much  in  the  delivery  of  his  sentences. 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  it  is  the  case  just  at  present  ;  I  have 
great  need  of  a  few  thousand  pounds  upon  my  personal  secur- 
it}'.  My  estate  is  already  a  little  mortgaged,  and  I  don't  wish 
to  encumber  it  more  ;  besides,  the  loan  would  be  merely  tem- 
porary :  you  know,  that  if  at  the  age  of  eighteen  Miss  Cameron 
refuse  me — (a  supposition  out  of  the  question,  but  in  business  we 
must  calculate  on  improbabilities) — I  claim  the  forfeit  she  in* 
curs — thirty  thousand  pounds — you  remember." 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTKUIES.  Qt 

"  Oh,  yes — that  is — upon  my  word — I — I  don't  exactly — but — 
your  lord — 1-1-1-lord-lordship  knows  best — I  have  been  so — so 
busy — I  forget  the  exact — hem — hem  !  " 

"If  you  just  turn  to  the  will  you  will  see  it  as  1  say.  Now, 
could  you  conveniently  place  a  few  thousands  to  my  account, 
just  for  a  short  time? — But  I  see  you  don't  like  it.  Never 
mind,  I  can  get  it  elsewhere  ;  only,  as  you  weremy  poor  uncle's 
friend — " 

"Your  lord — 1-1-1-lordship  is  quite  mistaken,"  said  Mr.  Douce, 
with  trembling  agitation  ;  "upon  my  word  ;  yes,  a  few  thou- 
thou- thousands — to  be  sure — to  be  sure.  Your  lordship's 
banker  is — is — " 

"  Drummond — disagreeable  people  by  no  means  obliging.  I 
shall  certainly  change  to  your  house  when  my  affairs  are  better 
worth  keeping." 

"  You  do  me  great — great  honor  ;  I  will  just — step — step — 
step  out,  for  a  moment — and — and  speak  to  Mr.  Dobs  ; — not  but 
what  you  may  depend  on — Excuse  me  !  Morning  Chron-chron- 
Chroiiicle,  my  lord  !  " 

Mr.  Douce  rose,  as  if  by  galvanism,  and  ran  out  of  the  room, 
spinning  round  as  he  ran,  to  declare,  again  and  again,  that  he 
would  not  be  gone  a  moment. 

"Good  little  fellow  that — very  like  an  electrified  frog  !  "  mur- 
mured Vargrave,  as  he  took  up  the  Morning  Chronicle,  so  es- 
pecially pointed  out  to  his  notice  :  and,  turning  to  the  leading 
article,  read  a  very  eloquent  attack  on  himself.  Lumley  was 
thick-skinned  on  such  matters — he  liked  to  be  attacked — it 
showed  that  he  was  up  in  the  world. 

Presently  Mr.  Douce  returned.  To  Lord  Vargrave's  amaze- 
ment and  delight,  he  was  informed  that  ten  thousand  pounds 
would  be  immediately  lodged  with  Messrs.  Drummond.  His 
bill  of  promise  to  pay  in  three  months — five  per  cent,  interest — 
was  quite  sufficient;  three  months  was  a  short  date  ;  but  the 
bill  could  be  renewed  on  the  same  terms,  from  quarter  to  quar- 
ter, till  quite  convenient  to  his  lordship  to  pay.  "Would  Lord 
Vargrave  do  him  the  honor  to  dine  with  him  at  Caserta  next 
Monday  ? " 

Lord  Vargrave  tried  to  affect  apathy  at  his  sudden  accession 
of  ready  money  ;  but,  really,  it  almost  turned  his  head ;  he 
griped  both  Mr,  Donee's  thin,  little  shivering  hands,  and  was 
speechless  with  gratitude  and  ecstasy.  The  sum,  which  doubled 
the  utmost  he  expected,  would  relieve  him  from  all  his  imme- 
diate embarrassments.  When  he  recovered  his  voice,  he  thanked 
bis  dear  Mr,  Pqucq  with  a  ^yar^)th  that  seemed  tP  wake  the 


92  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MVSTERIES. 

little  man  shrink  into  a  nutshell ;  and  assured  him  that  he  would 
dine  with  him  every  Monday  in  the  year — if  he  was  asked  !  He 
then  longed  to  depart  ;  but  he  thought,  justly,  that  to  go  as 
soon  as  he  had  got  what  he  wanted  would  look  selfish  ;  accord- 
ingly he  reseated  himself,  and  so  did  Mr.  Douce,  and  the  con- 
versation turned  upon  politics  and  news  :  but  Mr.  Douce,  who 
seemed  to  regard  all  things  with  a  commercial  eye,  contrived, 
Vargrave  hardly  knew  how,  to  veer  round  from  the  change 
in  the  French  ministry  to  the  state  of  the  English  money- 
market. 

"  It  really  is  indeed,  my  lord — I  say  it,  I  am  sure,  with  con- 
cern, a  very  bad  ti-ti-ti-ti-time  for  men  in  business — indeed,  for 
all  men — such  poor  interest  in  the  English  fu-fun-funds — and 
yet  speculations  are  so  unsound.  I  recommended  my  friend 
Sir  Giles  Grimsby  to — to  invest  some  money  in  the  American 
canals ;  a  most  rare  res-res-respons-responsibility,  I  may  say, 
for  me  ;  I  am  cautious  in  recommending  ;  but  Sir  Giles  was  an 
old  friend — con-con-connection,  I  may  say  ;  but  most  providen- 
tially, all  turned  out — that  is — fell  out — as  I  was  sure  it  would — 
thirty  per  cent. — and  the  value  of  the  sh-sh-sh-shares  doubled. 
But  such  things  are  very  rare — quite  godsends,  I  may  say  !  " 

"Well,  Mr.  Douce,  whenever  I  have  money  to  lay  out,  I  must 
come  and  consult  you." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  at  all  times  to — to  advise  your  lord- 
ship ;  but  it  is  not  a  thing  I'm  very  fond  of  ; — there's  Miss 
Cameron's  fortune  quite  1-1-locked  up — three  per  cents  and 
Exchequer  bills  ; — why  it  might  have  been  a  mil-mil-million  by 
this  ti-ti-time,  if  the  good  old  gentleman — I  beg  pardon — old — 
old  nobleman,  my  poor,  dear  friend  had  been  now  alive  ! " 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Lumley  greedily,  and  pricking  up  his  ears  ; 
"  he  was  a  good  manager,  my  uncle  !  " 

"  None  better,  none  better.  I  may  say  a  genius  for  busi — 
hem-~hem  !  Miss  Cameron  a  young  woman  of  bus-bus-busi- 
ness, my  lord  ?" 

"Not  much  of  that,  I  fear.     A  million,  did  you  say  ?" 
,    "  At  least  ! — indeed,  at  least — money  so  scarce — speculation  so 
sure  in  America — great  people  the  Americans — rising  people — 
gi-gi-giants — giants  !  " 

"  I  am  wasting  your  whole  morning — too  bad  in  me,"  said 
Vargrave,  as  the  clock  struck  five ;  "the  Lords  meet  this  even- 
ing— important  business — once  more  a  thousand  thanks  to  you — 
good-day." 

"  A  very  good-day  to  you,  my  lord  ;  don't  mention  it  ;  glad 
at  any  tim?  to  serser-serve  you,"  said  Mr,  Douce,  fidgeting, 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  93 

curveting,  and  prancing  round  Lord  Vargrave,  as  the  latter 
walked  through  the  outer  office  to  the  carriage. 

"Not  a  step  more  ;  you  will  catch  cold.  Good-bye — on 
Monday,  then,  seven  o'clock. — The  House  of  Lords." 

And  Lumley  threw  himself  back  in  his  carriage  in  high 
spirits. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Oublie  de  Tullie,  et  brave  du  Senat."  * 

Voltaire  :  Brutus,  Act  ii.  Sc.  I. 

In  the  Lords  that  evening  the  discussion  was  animated  and 
prolonged — it  was  the  last  party  debate  of  the  session.  The 
astute  opposition  did  not  neglect  to  bring  prominently,  though 
incidentally,  forward,  the  question  on  which  it  was  whispered 
that  there  existed  some  growing  difference  in  the  Cabinet.  Lord 
Vargrave  rose  late  ;  his  temper  was  excited  by  the  good  fortune 
of  his  day's  negotiation  ;  he  felt  himself  of  more  importance 
than  usual,  as  a  needy  man  is  apt  to  do  when  he  has  got  a  large 
sum  at  his  banker's  ;  moreover,  he  was  exasperated  by  some  per- 
sonal allusions  to  himself,  which  had  been  delivered  by  a  dig- 
nified old  lord  who  dated  his  family  from  the  ark,  and  was  as 
rich  as  Croesus.  Accordingly,  Vargrave  spoke  wiih  more  than 
his  usual  vigor.  His  first  sentences  were  welcomed  with  loud 
cheers — he  warmed — he  grew  vehement — he  uttered  the  most 
positive  and  unalterable  sentiments  upon  the  question  alluded 
to — he  greatly  transgressed  the  discretion  which  the  heads  of 
his  party  were  desirous  to  maintain  ; — instead  of  conciliating 
without  compromising,  he  irritated,  galled,  and  compromised. 
The  angry  cheers  of  the  opposite  party  were  loudly  re-echoed 
by  the  cheers  of  the  more  hot-headed  on  his  own  side.  The 
Premier  and  some  of  his  colleagues  observed,  however,  a  moody 
silence.  The  Premier  once  took  a  note,  then  reseated  himself, 
and  drew  his  hat  more  closely  over  his  brows.  It  was  an  omi- 
nous sign  for  Lumley  ;  but  he  was  looking  the  opposition  in  the 
face,  and  did  not  observe  it.  He  sate  down  in  triumph  ;  he  had 
made  a  most  effective  and  most  mischievous  speech — a  combi- 
nation extremely  common.  The  leader  of  the  opposition  replied 
to  him  with  bitter  calmness  ;  and,  when  citing  some  of  his  sharp 
sentences,  he  turned  to  the  Premier,  and  asked:  "Are  these 
opinions  those  also  of  the  noble  lord  ? — I  call  for  a  reply — I 
have  a  right  to  demand  a  reply."     Lumley  was  startled  to  hear 

•  Forgotten  by  TuIIy  and  bullied  by  the  Sen^ie, 


94  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

the  tone  in  which  his  chief  uttered  the  comprehensive  and  sig- 
nificant *^ Hear,  hear!" 

At  midnight  the  Premier  wound  up  the  debate.  His  speech 
was  short,  and  characterized  by  moderation.  He  came  to  the 
question  put  to  him — the  House  was  hushed — you  might  have 
heard  a  pin  drop — the  Commoners  behind  the  throne  pressed 
forward  with  anxiety  and  eagerness  on  their  countenances. 

"I  am  called  upon,"  said  the  minister,  "to  declare  if  those 
sentiments,  uttered  by  my  noble  friend,  are  mine  also,  as  the 
chief  adviser  of  the  Crown.  My  lords,  in  the  heat  of  debate, 
every  word  is  not  to  be  scrupulously  weighed,  and  rigidly  inter- 
preted." (*'  Hear,  hear,"  ironically  from  the  opposition — ap- 
provingly from  the  Treasury  benches.)  "My  noble  friend  will 
doubtless  be  anxious  to  explain  what  he  intended  to  say.  I  hope, 
nay,  I  doubt  not,  that  his  explanation  will  be  satisfactory  to  the 
noble  lord,  to  the  House,  and  to  the  Country.  But  since  I  am 
called  upon  for  a  distinct  reply  to  a  distinct  interrogatory,  I  will 
say  at  once,  that  if  those  sentiments  be  rightly  interpreted  by 
the  noble  lord  who  spoke  last,  those  sentiments  are  not  mine, 
and  will  never  animate  the  conduct  of  any  Cabinet  of  which  I 
am  a  member."  (Long  continued  cheering  from  the  opposi- 
tion.) "  At  the  same  time,  I  am  convinced  that  my  noble  friend's 
meaning  has  not  been  rightly  construed ;  and  till  I  hear  from 
himself  to  the  contrary,  I  will  venture  to  state  what  I  think  he 
designed  to  convey  to  your  lordships."  Here  the  Premier, 
with  a  tact  that  nobody  could  be  duped  by,  but  every  one  could 
admire,  stripped  Lord  Vargrave's  unlucky  sentences  of  every 
syllable  that  could  give  offence  to  anyone  ;  and  left  the  pointed 
epigrams  and  vehement  denunciations  a  most  harmless  arrange- 
ment of  commonplace. 

The  House  was  much  excited;  there  was  a  call  for  Lord  Var- 
grave,  and  Lord  Vargrave  promptly  rose.  It  was  one  of  those 
dilemmas  out  of  which  Lumley  was  just  the  man  to  extricate 
himself  with  address.  There  was  so  much  manly  frankness  in 
his  manner — there  was  so  much  crafty  subtlety  in  his  mind  !  He 
complained,  with  proud  and  honest  bitterness,  of  the  construc- 
tion which  had  been  forced  upon  his  words  by  the  opposition. 
"  If,"  he  added  (and  no  man  knew  better  the  rhetorical  effect  of 
the  ///  quoque  form  of  argument), — "  if  every  sentence  uttered 
by  the  noble  lord  opposite  in  his  zeal  for  liberty,  had,  in  days 
now  gone  by,  been  construed  with  equal  rigor,  or  perverted  with 
equal  ingenuity,  that  noble  lord  had  long  since  been  prosecuted 
as  an  incendiary,  perhaps  executed  as  a  traitor!"  Veliement 
cheers  from  the  ministerial  benches  ;  cries  of  "  Order ! "  froro 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  05 

the  opposition.  A  military  lord  rose  to  order,  and  appealed  to 
the  Woolsack. 

Lumley  sate  down,  as  if  chafed  at  the  interruption  ; — he  had 
produced  the  effect  he  had  desired — he  had  changed  the  public 
question  at  issue  into  a  private  quarrel  :  anew  excitement  was 
created — dust  was  thrown  into  the  eyes  of  the  House.  Several 
speakers  rose  to  accommodate  matters  ;  and,  after  half-an-hour 
of  public  time  had  been  properly  wasted,  the  noble  lord  on  one 
side  and  the  noble  lord  on  the  other  duly  explained  ; — paid  each 
other  the  highest  possible  compliments,  and  Lumley  was  left  to 
conclude  his  vindication,  which  now  seemed  a  comparatively 
flat  matter  after  the  late  explosion.  He  completed  his  task  so 
as  to  satisfy,  apparently,  all  parties — for  all  parties  were  now 
tired  of  the  thing,  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  But  the  next  morn- 
ing there  were  whispers  about  the  town — articles  in  the  differ- 
ent papers,  evidently  by  authority — rejoicings  among  the  oppo- 
sition— and  a  general  feeling,  that,  though  the  Government  might 
keep  together  that  session,  its  dissensions  would  break  out  before 
the  next  meeting  of  Parliament. 

As  Lumley  was  wrapping  himself  in  his  cloak  after  this  stormy 
debate,  the  Marquess  of  Raby — a  peer  of  large  possessions,  and 
one  who  entirely  agreed  with  Lumley's  views — came  up  to  him, 
and  proposed  that  they  should  go  home  together  in  Lord  Raby's 
carriage.  Vargrave  willingly  consented,  and  dismissed  his  own 
servants. 

"You  did  that  admirably,  my  dear  Vargrave!"  said  Lord 
Raby,  when  they  were  seated  in  the  carriage.  "  I  quite  coincide 
in  all  your  sentiments  ;  I  declare  my  blood  boiled  when  I  heard 

(the  Premier)  appear  half  inclined   to  throw  you  over. 

Your  hit  upon  was  first-rate — he  will  not  get  over  it  for  a 

month  ;  and  you  extricated  yourself  well." 

"  1  am  glad  you  approve  my  conduct — it  comforts  me,"  said 
Vargrave,  feelingly;  "at  the  same  time!  see  all  the  consequences: 
but  I  can  brave  all  for  the  sake  of  character  and  conscience." 

"  I  feel  just  as  you  do ! "  replied  Lord  Raby,  with  some 

warmth  :    "and  if  I   thought  that    meant  to  yield  this 

question,  I  should  certainly  oppose  his  administration." 

Vargrave  shook  his  head,  and  held  his  tongue,  which  gave 
Lord  Raby  a  high  idea  of  his  discretion. 

After  a  few  more  observations  on  political  matters.  Lord  Raby 
invited  Lumley  to  pay  him  a  visit  at  his  country-seat. 

"  I  am  going  to  Knaresdean  next  Monday  ;  you  know  we  have 
races  in  the  park — and  really  they  are  sometimes  good  sport : 
at  all  events,  it  is  a  very  pretty  sight.     There  will  be  nothing  in 


96  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  Lords  now — the  recess  is  just  at  hand  ;  and  if  you  can  spare 
the  time,  Lady  Raby  and  myself  will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  You  may  be  sure,  my  dear  lord,  I  cannot  refuse  your  invi- 
tation ;  indeed,  I  intended  to  visit  your  county  next  week.  You 
know,  perhaps,  a  Mr.  Merton?" 

"  Charles  Merton  ? — to  be  sure — most  respectable  man — capi- 
tal fellow — the  best  parson  in  the  county — no  cant,  but  thor- 
oughly orthodox  ; — he  certainly  keeps  in  his  brother,  who,  though 
a  very  active  member,  is  what  I  call  a  waverer  on  certain  ques- 
tions.    Have  you  known  Merton  long?" 

"  I  don't  know  him  at  all  as  yet — my  acquaintance  is  with  his 
wife  and  daughter, ^a  very  fine  girl,  by  the  by.  My  ward,  Miss 
Cameron,  is  staying  with  them." 

"  Miss  Cameron  ! — Cameron — ah  ! — I  understand  ;  I  think  I 
have  heard  that — but  gossip  does  not  always  tell  the  truth  !  " 

Lumley  smiled  significantly,  and  the  carriage  now  stopped  at 
his  door. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  take  a  seat  in  our  carriage  on  Monday  ?" 
said  Lord  Raby. 

"  Monday  ? — unhappily  I  am  engaged  ;  but  on  Tuesday  your 
lordship  may  expect  me." 

"Very  well — the  races  begin  on  Wednesday  ;  we  shall  have  a 
full  house — good-night ! " 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Homunculi  quanti  sunt,  cum  recogito."* — Plautus. 

It  is  obvious  that,  for  many  reasons,  we  must  be  brief  upon 
the  political  intrigue  in  which  the  scheming  spirit  of  Lord  Var- 
grave  was  employed.  It  would,  indeed,  be  scarcely  possible  to 
preserve  the  necessary  medium  between  too  plain  a  revelation, 
and  too  complex  a  disguise.  It  suffices,  therefore,  very  shortly 
to  repeat  what  the  reader  has  already  gathered  from  what  has 
gone  before — namely,  that  the  question  at  issue  was  one  which 
has  happened  often  enough  in  all  governments — one  on  which 
the  Cabinet  was  divided,  and  in  which  the  weaker  party  was 
endeavoring  to  out-trick  the  stronger. 

The  malcontents,  foreseeing  that  sooner  or  later  the  head  of 
the  gathering  must  break,  were  again  divided  among  themselves 
whether  to  resign  or  to  stay  in,  and  strive  to  force  a  resignation 
on  their  dissentient  colleagues.     The  richer  and  the  more  honest 

♦.When  I  reflect,  how  great  your  little  men  are  in  their  own  consideration. 


AttCE  ;    ok,  THE   MYSTERIES.  g'} 

Were  for  the  former  course  ;  the  poorer  and  more  dependent  for 
the  latter.  We  have  seen  that  the  latter  policy  was  that  espoused 
and  recommended  by  Vargrave — (who,  though  not  in  the  Cabi- 
net, always  contrived  somehow  or  other  to  worm  out  its  secrets) — 
at  the  same  time,  he  by  no  means  rejected  the  other  string  to 
his  bow.  If  it  were  possible  so  to  arrange  and  to  strengthen  his 
faction,  that,  by  the  coup  d'^iat  of  a  sudden  resignation  in  a  for- 
midable body,  the  whole  government  might  be  broken  up,  and 
a  new  one  formed  from  among  the  resignees,  it  would  obviously 
be  the  best  plan.  But  then  Lord  Vargrave  was  doubtful  of  his 
own  strength,  and  fearful  to  play  into  the  hands  of  his  col- 
leagues, who  might  be  able  to  stand  even  better  without  himself 
and  his  allies,  and,  by  conciliating  the  opposition,  take  a  step 
onward  in  political  movement,  which  might  leave  Vargrave 
placeless  and  powerless  for  years  to  come. 

He  repented  his  own  rashness  in  the  recent  debate,  which  was, 
indeed,  a  premature  boldness  that  had  sprung  out  of  momentary 
excitement — for  the  craftiest  orator  must  be  indiscreet  some- 
times. He  spent  the  next  few  days  in  alternately  seeking  to 
explain  away  to  one  party,  and  to  sound,  unite,  and  consolidate 
the  other.  His  attempts  in  the  one  quarter  were  received  by  the 
Premier  with  the  cold  politeness  of  an  offended  but  careful 
statesman,  who  believed  just  as  much  as  he  chose,  and  preferred 
taking  his  own  opportunity  for  a  breach  with  a  subordinate,  to 
risking  any  imprudence  by  the  gratification  of  resentment.  In 
the  last  quarter,  the  penetrating  adventurer  saw  that  his  ground 
was  more  insecure  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  perceived,  in 
dismay  and  secret  rage,  that  many  of  those  most  loud  in  his 
favor  while  he  was  with  the  Government  would  desert  him  the 
soonest  if  thrown  out.  Liked  as  a  subordinate  minister,  he  was 
viewed  with  very  different  eyes  the  moment  it  was  a  question 
whether,  instead  of  cheering  his  sentiments,  men  should  trust 
themselves  to  his  guidance.  Some  did  not  wish  to  displease  the 
Government ;  others  did  not  seek  to  weaken,  but  to  correct 
them.  One  of  his  stanchest  allies  in  the  Commons  was  a  can- 
didate for  a  peerage — another  suddenly  remembered  that  he  was 
second  cousin  to  the  Premier  ; — some  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a 
puppet  premier  in  Lord  Saxingham — others  insinuated  to  Var- 
grave that  he  himself  was  not  precisely  of  that  standing  in  the 
country  which  would  command  respect  to  a  new  party,  of  which, 
if  not  the  head,  he  would  be  the  mouthpiece  ; — for  themselves 
they  knew,  admired,  and  trusted  him  ;  but  those  d — d  country 
gentlemen — and  the  dull  public  ! 

Alarmed,  wearied,  and  disgusted,  the  schemer  saw  himself 


^S  AUcE  ;    OR,  tHE  ^iYsTEklEg. 

reduced  to  submission,  for  the  present  at  least ;  and  more  thail 
ever  he  felt  the  necessity  of  Evelyn's  fortune  to  fall  back  upon, 
if  the  chance  of  the  cards  should  rob  him  of  his  salary.  He 
was  glad  to  escape  for  a  breathing  while  from  the  vexations  and 
harassments  that  beset  him,  and  looked  forward  with  the  eager 
interest  of  a  sanguine  and  elastic  mind — always  escaping  from 
one  scheme  to  another — to  his  excursion  into  B shire. 

At  the  villa  of  Mr.  Douce,  Lord  Vargrave  met  a  young 
nobleman  who  had  just  succeeded  to  a  property  not  only  large 
and  unencumbered,  but  of  a  nature  to  give  him  importance  in 
the  eyes  of  politicians.  Situated  in  a  very  small  county,  the 
estates  of  Lord  Doltimore  secured  to  his  nomination  at  least 
one  of  the  representatives,  while  a  little  village  at  the  back 
of  his  pleasure-grounds  constituted  a  borough,  and  returned 
two  members  to  Parliament.  Lord  Doltimore,  just  returned 
from  the  Continent,  had  not  even  taken  his  seat  in  the  Lords  ; 
and  though  his  family  connections,  such  as  they  were — and 
they  were  not  very  high,  and  by  no  means  in  the  fashion — were 
ministerial,  his  own  opinions  were  as  yet  unrevealed. 

To  this  young  nobleman  Lord  Vargrave  was  singularly  atten- 
tive ;  he  was  well  formed  to  attract  men  younger  than  himself  ; 
and  he  eminently  succeeded  in  his  designs  upon  Lord  Dolti- 
more's  affection. 

His  lordship  was  a  small,  pale  man,  with  a  very  limited  share 
of  understanding,  supercilious  in  manner,  elaborate  in  dress, 
not  ill-natured  au  fond,  and  with  much  of  the  English  gentle- 
man in  his  disposition, — that  is,  he  was  honorable  in  his  ideas 
and  actions,  whenever  his  natural  dulness  and  neglected  edu- 
cation enabled  him  clearly  to  perceive  (through  the  midst  of 
prejudices,  the  delusions  of  others,  and  the  false  lights  of  the 
dissipated  society  in  which  he  had  lived)  what  was  right  and 
what  wrong.  But  his  leading  characteristics  were  vanity  and 
conceit.  He  had  lived  much  with  younger  sons,  cleverer  than 
himself,  who  borrowed  his  money,  sold  him  their  horses,  and 
won  from  him  at  cards.  In  return,  they  gave  him  all  that 
species  of  flattery  which  young  vatxican  give  with  so  hearty  an 
appearance  of  cordial  admiration.  "You  certainly  have  the 
best  horses  in  Paris. — You  are  really  a  devilish  good  fellow, 
Doltimore.  Oh,  do  you  know,  Doltimore,  what  little  Desiri 
says  of  you  !     You  have  certainly  turned  the  girl's  head," 

This  sort  of  adulation  from  one  sex  was  not  corrected  by  any 
great  acerbity  from  the  other.  Lord  Doltimore,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-two,  was  a  very  good  parti ;  and,  whatever  his  other 
deficiencies,  he  had  sense  enough  to  perceive  that  he  received 


Atidli  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTEfelfiS.  9^ 

much  greater  attention — whether  from  opera-dancers  in  search 
of  a  friend,  or  virtuous  young  ladies  in  search  of  a  husband — ■ 
than  any  of  the  companions,  good-looking  though  many  of  them 
were,  with  whom  he  had  habitually  lived. 

"  You  will  not  long  remain  in  town  now  the  season  is  over  ? " 
said  Vargrave,  as  after  dinner  he  found  himself,  by  the  depart- 
ure of  the  ladies,  next  to  Lord  Doltimore. 

"  No,  indeed  ;  even  in  the  season,  I  don't  much  like  London. 
Paris  has  rather  spoiled  me  for  any  other  place." 

"  Paris  is  certainly  very  charming — the  ease  of  French  life 
has  a  fascination  that  our  formal  ostentation  wants.  Never- 
theless, to  a  man  like  you,  London  must  have  many  attrac- 
tions." 

"  Why,  I  have  a  good  many  friends  here ;  but  still,  after  Ascot, 
it  rather  bores  me." 

"  Have  you  any  horse  on  the  turf  ?  " 

'*  Not  yet  ;  but  Legard  (you  know  Legard,  perhaps — a  very 
good  fellow)  is  anxious  that  I  should  try  my  luck.  I  was  very 
fortunate  in  the  races  at  Paris — you  know  we  have  established 
racing  there.     The  French  take  to  it  quite  naturally." 

"Ah,  indeed  ! — it  is  so  long  since  I  have  been  in  Paris — most 
exciting  amusement  !  Apropos  of  races — I  am  going  down  to 
Lord  Raby's  to-morrow ;  I  think  I  saw  in  one  of  the  morning 
papers,  that  you  had  very  largely  backed  a  horse  entered  at 
Knaresdean." 

"  Yes,  Thunderer — I  think  of  buying  Thunderer.  Legard — 
Colonel  Legard — (he  was  in  the  Guards,  but  he  sold  out) — is  a 
good  judge,  and  recommends  the  purchase.  How  very  odd 
that  you  too  should  be  going  to  Knaresdean  !  " 

"Odd,  indeed,  but  most  lucky  ! — we  can  go  together,  if  you 
are  not  better  engaged." 

Lord  Doltimore  colored  and  hesitated.  On  the  one  hand, 
he  was  a  little  afraid  of  being  alone  with  so  clever  a  man  ;  on 
the  other  hand,  it  was  an  honor — it  was  something  for  him  to 
talk  of  to  Legard.  Nevertheless,  the  shyness  got  the  better  ol 
the  vanity — he  excused  himself — he  feared  he  was  engaged  to 
take  down  Legard. 

Luniley  smiled,  and  changed  the  conversation  ;  and  so  agree- 
able did  he  make  himself,  that  when  the  party  broke  up,  and 
Lumley  had  just  shaken  hands  with  his  host,  Doltimore  came 
to  him,  and  said  in  a  little  confusion — 

"  I  think  I  can  put  off  I>egard — if — if  you — " 

"  That's  delightful ! — What  time  shall  we  start  ? — need  not 
get  down  much  before  dinner — one  o'clock?" 


*6d  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTEftfgS. 

"Oil,  yes  ! — not  too  long  before  dinner — one  o'clock  will  be 
a  little  too  early." 

"  Two,  then.     Where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

"At  Fenton's." 

"  I  will  call  for  you — good-night ! — I  long  to  see  Thunderer !  '* 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  La  sante  de  I'^me  n'est  pas  plus  assuree  que  cette  du  corps  ;  et  quoique 
Ton  paraisse  eloigne  des  passions,  on  n'est  pas  moins  en  danger  de  s'y  laisser 
emporter,  que  de  tomber  malade  quand  on  se  porte  bien,"  * — La  Rochefou- 
cauld. 

In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Maltravers  to  shun  all  occasions  of 
meeting  Evelyn,  they  were  necessarily  sometimes  thrown  to- 
gether in  the  round  of  provincial  hospitalities ;  and,  certainly, 
if  either  Mr.  Merton  or  Caroline  (the  shrewder  observer  of  the 
two)  had  ever  formed  any  suspicion  that  Evelyn  had  made  a 
conquest  of  Maltravers,  his  manner  at  such  times  effectually 
removed  it. 

Maltravers  was  a  man  to  feel  deeply  ;  but  no  longer  a  boy  to 
yield  to  every  tempting  impulse.  I  have  said  that  fortitude 
was  his  favorite  virtue — but  fortitude  is  the  virtue  of  great  and 
rare  occasions  ;  there  was  another,  equally  hard-favored  and 
unshowy,  which  he  took  as  the  staple  of  active  and  every-day 
duties — and  that  virtue  was  justice.  Now,  in  earlier  life,  he 
had  been  enamoured  of  the  conventional  Florimel  that  we  call 
HONOR — a  shifting  and  shadowy  phantom,  that  is  but  the  reflex 
of  the  opinion  of  the  time  and  clime.  But  justice  has  in  it 
something  permanent  and  solid  ;  and  out  of  justice  arises  the 
real,  not  the  false  honor. 

"  Honor ! "  said  Maltravers — **  honor  is  to  justice  as  the 
flower  to  the  plant — its  efflorescence,  its  bloom,  its  consumma- 
tion !  But  honor  that  does  not  spring  from  justice  is  but  a 
piece  of  painted  rag,  an  artificial  rose,  which  the  men-milliners 
of  society  would  palm  upon  us  as  more  natural  than  the  true." 

This  principle  of  justice  Maltravers  sought  to  carry  out  in 
all  things — not,  perhaps,  with  constant  success  ;  for  what  prac- 
tice can  always  embody  theory  ? — but  still,  at  least,  his  endeavor 
at  success  was  constant.  This,  perhaps,  it  was  which  had  ever 
kept  him  from  the  excesses  to  which  exuberant  and  liberal 
natures  are  prone — from  the  extravagances  of  pseudo-genius. 

♦  The  health  of  the  soul  is  not  more  sure  than  that  of  the  body,  and  ahhough  we  mav 
appear  free  from  passions,  there  is  not  the  less  danger  of  their  attack,  than  of  falling  sicfc 
ikt  the  moment  we  are  well. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MVStERtEg.  16t 

"No  man,"  for  instance,  he  was  wont  to  say,  "can  be  em- 
barrassed in  his  own  circumstances,  and  not  cause  embarrass- 
ment toothers.  Without  economy,  who  can  be  just?  And 
what  are  charity — generosity — but  the  poetry  and  the  beauty 
of  justice? " 

No  man  ever  asked  Maltravers  twice  for  a  just  debt ;  and  no 
man  ever  once  asked  him  to  fulfil  a  promise.  You  felt  that, 
come  what  would,  you  might  rely  upon  his  word.  To  him 
might  have  been  applied  the  witty  eulogium  passed  by  Johnson 
upon  a  certain  nobleman  :  "  If  he  had  promised  you  an  acorn, 
and  the  acorn-season  failed  in  England,  he  would  have  sent  to 
Norway  for  one  !  " 

It  was  not,  therefore,  the  mere  Norman  and  chivalrous  spirit 
of  honor,  which  he  liad  worshipped  in  youth  as  a  part  of  the 
Beautiful  and  Becoming,  but  which  in  youth  had  yielded  to 
temptation,  as  a  sentiment  ever  must  yield  to  a  passion — but  it 
was  the  more  hard,  stubborn,  and  XQ^QCtiwQ  principle,  which  was 
the  later  growth  of  deeper  and  nobler  wisdom,  that  regulated  the 
conduct  of  Maltravers  in  this  crisis  of  his  life.  Certain  it  is, 
that  he  had  never  but  once  loved  as  he  loved  Evelyn  ;  and 
yet  that  he  never  yielded  so  little  to  the  passion. 

"If  engaged  to  another,"  thought  he,  "  that  engagement  it  is 
not  for  a  third  person  to  attempt  to  dissolve.  I  am  the  last  to 
form  a  right  judgment  of  the  strength  or  weakness  of  the  bonds 
which  unite  her  to  Vargrave — for  my  emotions  would  prejudice 
me  despite  myself.  I  may  fancy  that  her  betrothed  is  not 
worthy  of  her — but  that  is  for  her  to  decide.  While  the  bond 
lasts,  who  can  be  justified  in  tempting  her  to  break  it?" 

Agreeably  to  those  notions,  which  the  world  may,  perhaps, 
consider  overstrained,  whenever  Maltravers  met  Evelyn  he 
entrenched  himself  in  a  rigid  and  almost  a  chilling  formality. 
How  difficult  this  was  with  one  so  simple  and  ingenuous  !  Poor 
Evelyn  !  she  thought  she  had  offended  him — she  longed  to  ask 
him  her  offence — perhaps,  in  her  desire  to  rouse  his  genius  into 
exertion,  she  had  touched  some  secret  sore,  some  latent  wound 
of  the  memory?  She  recalled  all  their  conversations  again  and 
again.  Ah  !  why  could  they  not  be  renewed  ?  Upon  her 
fancy  and  her  thoughts  Maltravers  had  made  an  impression  not 
to  be  obliterated.  She  wrote  more  frequently  than  ever  to 
Lady  Vargrave,  and  the  name  of  Maltravers  was  found  in  every, 
page  of  her  correspondence. 

One  evening,  at  the  house  of  a  neighbor.  Miss  Cameron  (with 
the  Mertons)  entered  the  room  almost  in  the  same  instant  as 
Maltravers.     The  party  was  small,  and  so  few  had  yet  arrived^ 


102  ALICE  ;    ok,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

that  it  was  impossible  for  Maltravers,  without  marked  rudeness, 
to  avoid  his  friends  from  the  rectory  ;  and  Mrs.  Merton,  placing 
herself  next  to  Evelyn,  graciously  motioned  to  Maltravers  to 
occupy  the  third  vacant  seat  on  the  sofa,  of  which  she  filled  the 
centre. 

"We  grudge  all  your  improvements,  Mr.  Maltravers,  since 
they  cost  us  your  society.  But  we  know  that  our  dull  circle 
must  seem  tame  to  one  who  has  seen  so  much.  However,  we 
expect  to  offer  you  an  inducement  soon  in  Lord  Vargrave. 
What  a  lively,  agreeable  person  he  is  !  " 

Maltravers  raised  his  eyes  to  Evelyn,  calmly  and  penetrat- 
ingly, at  the  latter  part  of  this  speech.  He  observed  that  she 
turned  pale,  and  sighed  involuntarily. 

"  He  had  great  spirits  when  I  knew  him,"  said  he ;  "  and  he 
had  then  less  cause  to  make  him  happy." 

Mrs.  Merton  smiled,  and  turned  rather  pointedly  towards 
Evelyn. 

Maltravers  continued  :  "  I  never  met  the  late  lord.  He  had 
none  of  the  vivacity  of  his  nephew,  I  believe." 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  was  very  severe,"  said  Mrs.  Merton, 
lifting  her  glass  towards  a  party  that  had  just  entered. 

"  Severe  !  "  exclaimed  Evelyn.  "  Ah,  if  you  could  have 
known  him — the  kindest — the  most  indulgent — no  one  ever 
loved  me  as  he  did."     She  paused,  for  she  felt  her  lip  quiver. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  coolly. 
Mrs.  Merton  had  no  idea  of  the  pain  inflicted  by  treading  upon 
a  feeling.  Maltravers  was  touched,  and  Mrs.  Merton  went  on, 
**  No  wonder  he  was  kind  to  you,  Evelyn — a  brute  would  be 
that ;  but  he  was  generally  considered  a  stern  man." 

"I  never  saw  a  stern  look — I  never  heard  a  harsh  word;  nay, 
I  do  not  rememberthat  he  ever  even  used  the  word  'command,'  " 
said  Evelyn,  almost  angrily. 

Mrs.  Merton  was  about  to  reply,  when,  suddenly,  seeing  a 
lady  whose  little  girl  had  been  ill  of  the  measles,  her  motherly 
thoughts  flowed  into  a  new  channel,  and  she  fluttered  away  in 
that  sympathy  which  unites  all  the  heads  of  a  growing  family. 
Evelyn  and  Maltravers  were  left  alone. 

"You  do  not  remember  your  father,  I  believe?"  said  Mal- 
travers. 

"  No  father  but  Lord  Vargrave  :  while  he  lived,  I  never  knew 
ithe  loss  of  one." 

"Does  your  mother  resemble  you  ?" 

"Ah,  I  wish  I  could  think  so;  it  is  the  sweetest  countenance  !'* 

"Have  you  no  picture  of  her?" 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I03 

''None — she  would  never  consent  to  sit." 

"Your  father  was  a  Cameron  :  I  have  known  some  of  that 
name." 

"  No  relations  of  ours  :  my  mother  says  we  have  none  living." 

"And  have  we  no  chance  of  seeing  Lady  Vargrave  in  B 

shire?" 

"  She  never  leaves  home:  but  I  hope  soon  to  return  to  Brook- 
Green." 

Maltravers  sighed,  and  the  conversation  took  a  new  turn. 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  the  books  you  so  kindly  sent — I 
ought  to  have  returned  them  ere  this,"  said  Evelyn. 

"I  have  no  use  for  them.  Poetry  has  lost  its  charm  for  me; 
especially  that  species  of  poetry  which  unites  with  the  method 
and  symmetry  something  of  the  coldness  of  Art.  How  did  you 
like  Alfieri?" 

*'  His  language  is  a  kind  of  Spartan  French,"  answered  Eve- 
lyn, in  one  of  those  happy  expressions  which  every  now  and  then 
showed  the  quickness  of  her  natural  talent. 

"Yes,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling;  "the  criticism  is  acute. 
Poor  Alfieri ! — in  his  wild  life  and  his  stormy  passions,  he  threw 
out  all  the  redundance  of  his  genius  ;  and  his  poetry  is  but  the 
representative  of  his  thoughts — not  his  emotions.  Happier  the 
man  of  genius  who  lives  upon  his  reason,  and  wastes  feeling 
only  on  his  verse  !  " 

"  You  do  not  think  that  we  waste  feeling  upon  human  beings  ?" 
said  Evelyn,  with  a  pretty  laugh. 

"Ask  me  that  question  when  you  have  reached  my  years,  and 
can  look  upon  fields  on  which  you  have  lavished  your  warmest 
hopes — your  noblest  aspirations — your  tenderest  affections — 
and  see  the  soil  all  profitless  and  barren.  'Set  not  your  heart 
on  the  things  of  earth,'  saith  the  Preacher." 

Evelyn  was  affected  by  the  tone,  the  words,  and  the  melan- 
choly countenance  of  the  speaker. 

"  You,  of  all  men,  ought  not  to  think  thus,"  said  she,  with  a 
sweet  eagerness  ;  "  you  who  have  done  so  much  to  awaken  and 
to  soften  the  heart  in  others — you — who — "  she  stopped  short, 
and  added,  more  gravely,  "  Ah,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  cannot  reason 
with  you,  but  I  can  hope  you  will  refute  your  own  philosophy." 

"Were  your  own  wish  fulfilled,"  answered  Maltravers,  almost 
with  sternness  and  with  an  expression  of  great  pain  in  his  com- 
pressed lips,  "I  should  have  to  thank  you  for  much  misery." 
He  rose  abruptly,  and  turned  away. 

"How  have  I  offended  him  !  "  thought  Evelyn,  sorrowfully  j 
"  J  never  speak  but  to  wound  him — what  hav<  I  don^ ! " 


104  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

She  could  have  wished,  in  her  simple  kindness,  to  follow  him, 
and  make  peace  ;  but  he  was  now  in  a  coterie  of  strangers  ;  and 
shortly  afterwards  he  left  the  room,  and  she  did  not  see  him 
again  for  weeks. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Nihil  est  aliud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta."  * — Vet.  Auct. 

An  anxious  event  disturbed  the  smooth  current  of  cheerful 
life  at  Merton  Rectory.  One  morning  when  Evelyn  came  down 
she  missed  little  Sophy,  who  liad  contrived  to  establish  for  her- 
self the  undisputed  privilege  of  a  stool  beside  Miss  Cameron  at 
breakfast.  Mrs.  Merton  appeared  with  a  much  graver  face 
than  usual.  Sophy  was  unwell,  was  feverish  ;  the  scarlet  fever 
had  been  in  the  neighborhood.     Mrs.  Merton  was  very  uneasy. 

"It  is  the  more  unlucky,  Caroline,"  added  the  mother,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Merton,  "because  to-morrow,  you  know,  we  were 
to  have  spent  a  few  days  at  Knaresdean,  to  see  the  races.  If 
poor  Sophy  does  not  get  better,  I  fear  you  and  Miss  Cameron 
must  go  without  me.  I  can  send  Mrs.  Hare  to  be  your  chap- 
eron ;  she  would  be  delighted." 

"  Poor  Sophy  !  "  said  Caroline  ;  "I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  she 
is  unwell ;  but  I  think  Taylor  would  take  great  care  of  her ;  you 
surely  need  not  stay,  unless  she  is  much  worse." 

Mrs.  Merton,  who,  tame  as  she  seemed,  was  a  fond  and  atten- 
tive mother,  shook  her  head  and  said  nothing  ;  but  Sophy  was 
much  worse  by  noon.  The  doctor  was  sent  for  and  pronounced 
it  to  be  the  scarlet  fever. 

It  was  now  necessary  to  guard  against  the  infection.  Caro- 
line had  had  the  complaint,  and  slie  willingly  shared  in  her 
mother's  watch  of  love  for  two  or  three  hours.  Mrs.  Merton 
gave  up  the  party.  Mrs.  Hare  (the  wife  of  a  rich  squire  in  the 
neighborhood)  was  written  to,  and  that  lady  willingly  agreed  to 
take  charge  of  Caroline  and  her  friend. 

Sophy  had  been  left  asleep.  When  Mrs.  Merton  returned  to 
her  bed,  she  found  Evelyn  quietly  stationed  there.  This  alarmed 
her,  for  Evelyn  had  never  had  the  scarlet  fever  and  had  been 
forbidden  the  sick  room.  But  poor  little  Sophy  had  waked  and 
querulously  asked  for  her  dear  Evy ;  and  Evy,  who  had  been 
hovering  round  the  room,  heard  the  inquiry  from  the  garrulous 
nurse,  and  come  in  she  would  ;  and  the  child  gazed  at  her  so 
beseechingly,  when  Mrs.  Merton  entered,  atid  said  so  piteously, 

♦  Therp  is  nothing  so  great,  as  the  collection  of  the  minut^. 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  105 

"  Don't  take  Evy  away,"  that  Evelyn  stoutly  declared  that  she 
was  not  the  least  afraid  of  infection,  and  stay  she  must.  Nay, 
her  share  in  the  nursing  would  be  the  more  necessary,  since 
Caroline  was  to  go  to  Knaresdean  the  next  day. 

"  But  you  go  too,  my  dear  Miss  Cameron?" 

"  Indeed  I  could  not :  I  don't  care  for  races,  I  never  wished 
to  go ;  I  would  much  sooner  have  stayed ;  and  I  am  sure 
Sophy  will  not  get  well  without  me — will  you,  dear?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes — if  I'm  to  keep  you  from  the  nice  races — I 
should  be  worse  if  I  thought  that." 

"  But  I  don't  like  the  nice  races,  Sophy,  as  your  sister  Carry 
does  ;  she  must  go;  they  can't  do  without  her; — -but  nobody 
knows  me,  so  I  shall  not  be  missed." 

"I  can't  hear  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Merton  with  tears 
in  her  eyes;  and  Evelyn  said  no  more  then; — but  the  next  morn- 
ing Sophy  was  still  worse,  and  the  mother  was  too  anxious  and 
too  sad  to  think  more  of  ceremony  and  politeness, — so  Evelyn 
stayed. 

A  momentary  pang  shot  across  Evelyn's  breast  when  all  was 
settled ;  but  she  suppressed  the  sigh  which  accompanied  the 
thought  that  she  had  lost  the  only  opportunity  she  might  have 
for  weeks  of  seeing  Maltravers  ;  to  that  chance  she  had  indeed 
looked  forward,  with  interest  and  timid  pleasure, — the  chance 
was  lost — but  why  should  it  vex  her — what  was  he  to  her? 

Caroline's  heart  smote  her,  as  she  came  into  the  room  in  her 
lilac  bonnet  and  new  dress  ;  and  little  Sophy,  turning  on  her 
eyes  which,  though  languid,  still  expressed  a  child's  pleasure  at 
the  sight  of  finery,  exclaimed,  "  How  nice  and  pretty  you  look, 
Carry  ! — do  take  Evy  with  you — Evy  looks  pretty  too  !  " 

Caroline  kissed  the  child  in  silence,  and  paused  irresolute  ; 
glanced  at  her  dress,  and  then  at  Evelyn,  who  smiled  on  her 
without  a  thought  of  envy  ;  and  she  had  half  a  mind  to  stay  too, 
when  her  mother  entered  with  a  letter  from  Lord  Vargrave.  It 
was  short :  he  should  be  at  the  Knaresdean  races — hoped  to 
meet  them  there,  and  accompany  them  home.  This  information 
re-decided  Caroline,  while  it  rewarded  Evelyn.  In  a  few  min- 
utes more,  Mrs.  Hare  arrived  ;  and  Caroline,  glad  to  escape,  per- 
haps, her  own  compunction,  hurried  into  the  carriage,  with  a 
hasty  "  God  bless  you  all ! — don't  fret — I'm  sure  she  will  be  well 
to-morrow — and  mind,  Evelyn,  you  don't  catch  the  fever!" 

Mr.  Merton  looked  grave  and  sighed,  as  he  handed  her  into 
the  carriage  ;  but  when,  seated  there,  she  turned  round  and 
kissed  her  hand  at  him,  she  looked  so  handsome  and  distin- 
guished, that  a  sentiment  of  paternal  pride  smoothed  down  his 


lo6  ALICE  ;     OK,   Tiib    MVsThKlES. 

vexation  at  her  want  of  feeling.  He  himself  gave  up  the  visit ; 
but  a  little  time  after,  when  Sophy  fell  into  a  tranquil  sleep,  he 
thought  he  might  venture  to  canter  across  the  country  to  the 
race-ground,  and  return  to  dinner. 

Days — nay,  a  whole  week  passed — the  races  were  over — but 
Caroline  had  not  returned.  Meanwhile  Sophy's  fever  left  her; 
she  could  quit  her  bed — her  room — she  could  come  downstairs 
again — and  the  family  was  happy.  It  is  astonishing  how  the 
least  ailment  in  those  little  things  stops  the  wheels  of  domestic 
life  !  Evelyn  fortunately  had  not  caught  the  fever ;  she  was 
pale  and  somewhat  reduced  by  fatigue  and  confinement ;  but 
she  was  amply  repaid  by  the  mother's  swimming  look  of  quiet 
gratitude — the  father's  pressure  of  the  hand — Sophy's  recovery — 
and  her  own  good  heart.  They  had  heard  twice  from  Caroline, 
putting  off  her  return:  Lady  Raby  was  so  kind,  she  could  not 
away  till  the  party  broke  up;  she  was  so  glad  to  hear  such  an 
account  of  Sophy. 

Lord  Vargrave  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  rectory  to  stay ; 
but  he  had  twice  ridden  over,  and  remained  there  some  hours. 
He  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  please  Evelyn  ;  and  she — 
who,  deceived  by  his  manners,  and  influenced  by  the  recollec- 
tions of  long  and  familiar  acquaintance,  was  blinded  to  his  real 
character — reproached  herself  more  bitterly  than  ever  for  her 
repugnance  to  his  suit  and  her  ungrateful  hesitation  to  obey  the 
wishes  of  her  stepfather. 

To  the  Mertons,  Lumley  spoke  with  good-natured  praise  of 
Caroline  ;  she  was  so  much  admired  ;  she  was  the  beauty  at 
Knaresdean.  A  certain  young  friend  of  his,  Lord  Doltimore, 
was  evidently  smitten.  The  parents  thought  much  over  the  ideas 
conjured  up  by  that  last  sentence. 

One  morning,  the  garrulous  Mrs.  Hare — the  gossip  of  the 
neighborhood — called  at  the  rectory ;  she  had  returned,  two 
days  before,  from  Knaresdean ;  and  she,  too,  had  her  tale  to 
tell  of  Caroline's  conquests. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton,  if  we  had  not  all  known 
that  his  heart  was  pre-occupied,  we  should  have  thought  that 
Lord  Vargrave  was  her  warmest  admirer.  Most  charming  man, 
Lord  Vargrave  ! — but  as  for  Lord  Doltimore,  it  was  quite  a 
flirtation.  Excuse  me — no  scandal,  you  know,  ha,  ha  ! — a  fine 
young  man,  but  stiff  and  reserved — not  the  fascination  of  Lord 
Vargrave." 

"  Does  Lord  Raby  return  to  town,  or  i§  he  now  &t  Knar^g- 
4e^n  for  the  ftuti^ran  ? " 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  IO7 

"  He  goes  on  Friday,  I  believe  :  very  few  of  the  guests  are 
left  now.  Lady  A.,  and  Lord  B.,  and  Lord  Vargrave  and  your 
daughter,  and  Mr.  Legard,  and  Lord  Doltimore,  and  Mrs.  and 
the  Misses  Cipher ; — all  the  rest  went  the  same  day  I  did." 

"Indeed  !"  said  Mr.  Merton,  in  some  surprise. 

"Ah,  I  read  your  thoughts ;  you  wonder  that  Miss  Caroline 
has  not  come  back — is  not  that  it  ?  But  perhaps  Lord  Dolti- 
more— ha,  ha! — no  scandal  now — do  excuse  7ne!" 

"Was  Mr.  Maltravers  at  Knaresdean  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Merton, 
anxious  to  change  the  subject,  and  unprepared  with  any  other 
question.  Evelyn  was  cutting  out  a  paper  horse  for  Sophy, 
who, — all  her  high  spirits  flown — was  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  wist- 
fully following  her  fairy  fingers — "  Naughty  Evy,  you  have  cut 
off  the  horse's  head  !  " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers — no,  I  think  not ;  no,  he  was  not  there. 
Lord  Raby  asked  him  pointedly  to  come,  and  was,  I  know,  much 
disappointed  that  he  did  not.  But  apropos  of  Mr.  Maltravers  : 
I  met  him  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  this  morning,  as  I  was 
coming  to  you.  You  know  we  have  leave  to  come  through  his 
park,  and  as  I  was  in  the  park  at  the  time,  I  stopped  the  carriage 
to  speak  to  him.  I  told  him  that  I  was  coming  here,  and  that 
you  had  had  the  scarlet  fever  in  the  house,  which  was  the  rea- 
sen  you  had  not  gone  to  the  races  ;  and  he  turned  quite  pale, 
and  seemed  so  alarmed.  I  said  we  were  all  afraid  that  Miss 
Cameron  should  catch  it ;  and  excuse  me — ha,  ha  ! — no  scandal, 
I  hope — but — " 

"Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the  butler,  throwing  open  the  door. 

Maltravers  entered  with  a  quick  and  even  a  hurried  step  ;  he 
stopped  short  when  he  saw  Evelyn  ;  and  his  whole  countenance 
was  instantly  lightened  up  by  a  joyous  expression,  which  as  sud- 
denly died  away. 

"  This  is  kind  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Merton  ;  "it  is  so  long  since 
we  have  seen  you." 

"  I  have  been  very  much  occupied,"  muttered  Maltravers, 
almost  inaudibly,  and  seated  himself  next  Evelyn.  "  I  only 
just  heard — that — that  you  had  sickness  in  tlie  house — Miss 
Cameron,  you  look  pale — you — you  have  not  suffered,  I 
hope  ?" 

"No — I  am  quite  well,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile  ;  and  she 
felt  happy  that  her  friend  was  kind  to  her  once  more. 

"It's  only  me,  Mr.  Ernest,"  said  Sophy;  "you  have  forgot 
me!" 

Maltravers  hastened  to  vindicate  himself  from  the  charge,  and 
Sophy  and  he  were  soon  made  excellent  friends  again. 


to8  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Mrs.  Hare,  whom  surprise  at  this  sudden  meeting  had  hithertd 
silenced,  and  who  longed  to  shape  into  elegant  periphrasis  the 
common  adage  "Talk  of,  etc.,"  now  once  more  opened  her  bud- 
get. She  tattled  on:  first  to  one,  then  to  the  other,  then  to  all; 
till  she  had  tattled  herself  out  of  breath  ;  and  then  the  orthodox 
half-hour  had  expired,  and  the  bell  was  rung,  and  the  carriage 
ordered,  and  Mrs,  Hare  rose  to  depart. 

"Do  just  come  to  the  door,  Mrs.  Merton,"  said  she,  "and 
look  at  my  pony-phaeton,  it  is  so  pretty — Lady  Raby  admires 
it  so  much  ;  you  ought  to  have  just  such  another."  As  she 
spoke,  she  favored  Mrs.  Merton  with  a  significant  glance,  that 
said,  as  plainly  as  glance  could  say,  "I  have  something  to  com- 
municate." Mrs.  Merton  took  the  hint,  and  followed  the  good 
lady  out  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton,"  said  Mrs.  Hare,  in  a 
whisper,  when  they  were  safe  in  the  billiard-room,  that  interposed 
between  the  apartment  they  had  left  and  the  hall ;  "  do  you 
know  whether  Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr.  Maltravers  are  very  good 
friends?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Oh,  because  when  I  was  speaking  to  Lord  Vargrave  about 
him,  he  shook  his  head  ;  and  really  I  don't  remember  what  his 
lordship  said  ;  but  he  seemed  to  speak  as  if  there  was  a  little 
soreness.  And  then  he  inquired,  very  anxiously,  if  Mr.  Maltra- 
vers was  much  at  the  rectory !  and  looked  discomposed  when 
he  found  you  were  such  near  neighbors.  You'll  excuse  me, 
you  know — ha,  ha  ! — but  we're  such  old  friends  ! — and  if  Lord 
Vargrave  is  coming  to  stay  here,  it  might  be  unpleasant  to 
meet — you'll  excuse  me.  I  took  the  liberty  to  tell  him,  he  need 
not  be  jealous  of  Mr.  Maltravers — ha,  ha  ! — not  a  marrying  man 
at  all.  But  I  did  think  Miss  Caroline  was  the  attraction — you'll 
excuse  me — no  scandal — ha,  ha!  But,  after  all.  Lord  Doltimore 
must  be  the  man  ; — well,  good-morning.  I  thought  I'd  just 
give  you  this  hint.  Is  not  the  phaeton  pretty?  Kind  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Merton." 

And  the  lady  drove  off. 

During  this  confabulation,  Maltravers  and  Evelyn  were  left 
alone  with  Sophy.  Maltravers  had  continued  to  lean  over  the 
child, and  appeared  listening  to  her  prattle;  while  Evelyn, hav- 
ing risen  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Hare,  did  not  reseat  herself, 
but  went  to  the  window,  and  busied  herself  with  a  flower-stand 
in  the  recess. 

"Oh, very  fine,  Mr.  Ernest,"  said  Sophy  (always pronouncing 
that  proper  name  as  if  it  ended  in  ///),  "you  care  very  much  for 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  I09 

US  to  stay  away  so  long — don't  he,  Evy?  I've  a  great  mind 
not  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  that  I  have ! " 

"That  would  be  too  heavy  a  punishment,  Miss  Sophy — only, 
luckily,  it  would  punish  yourself ;  you  could  not  live  without 
talking— talk — talk — talk  !  " 

"But I  might  never  have  talked  more,  Mr.  Ernest, if  mamma 
and  pretty  Evy  had  not  been  so  kind  to  me ;"  and  the  child 
shocDk  her  head  mournfully,  as  if  she  had  pitid  de  soi-mhne. 
"But  you  won't  stay  away  so  long  again,  will  you?  Sophy  play 
to-morrow — come  to-morrow,  and  swing  Sophy — no  nice  swing- 
ing since  you've  been  gone." 

While  Sophy  spoke,  Evelyn  turned  half  round,  as  if  to  hear 
Maltravers  answer ;  he  hesitated  and  Evelyn  spoke — 

"  You  must  not  tease  Mr.  Maltravers  so  :  Mr.  Maltravers 
has  too  much  to  do  to  come  to  us." 

Now  this  was  a  very  pettish  speech  in  Evelyn,  and  her  cheek 
glowed  while  she  spoke  ;  but  an  arch,  provoking  smile  was  on 
her  lips. 

"It  can  be  a  privation  only  to  me,  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Mal- 
travers, rising,  and  attempting  in  vain  to  resist  the  impulse  that 
drew  him  towards  the  window.  The  reproach  in  her  tone  and 
words  at  once  pained  and  delighted  him  ;  and  then  this  scene — 
the  suffering  child — brought  back  to  him  his  first  interview  with 
Evelyn  herself.  He  forgot,  for  the  moment,  the  lapse  of  time — 
the  new  ties  she  had  formed — his  own  resolutions, 

"That  is  a  bad  compliment  to  us,"  answered  Evelyn  ingenu- 
ously :  "  do  you  think  we  are  so  little  worthy  your  society  as 
not  to  value  it?  But,  perhaps"  (she  added,  sinking  her  voice) 
"perhaps  you  have  been  offended — perhaps  I — I — said — some- 
thing that — that  hurt  you  !  " 

"  You  !  "  repeated  Maltravers,  with  emotion. 

Sophy,  who  had  been  attentively  listening,  here  put  in — 
"Shake  hands  and  make  it  up  with  Evy — you've  been  quarrel- 
ling, naughty  Ernest ! " 

Evelyn  laughed,  and  tossed  back  her  sunny  ringlets.  "I  think 
Sophy  is  right,"  said  she,  with  enchanting  simplicity;  "let  us 
make  it  up  ;"  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Maltravers. 

Maltravers  pressed  the  fair  hand  to  his  lips.  "Alas  !"  said 
he,  affected  with  various  feelings  which  gave  a  tremor  to  his 
deep  voice,  "your  only  fault  is,  that  your  society  makes  me  dis- 
contented with  my  solitary  home ;  and  as  solitude  must  be  my 
fate  in  life,  I  seek  to  enure  myself  to  it  betimes." 

Here,  wlielher  opportunely  or  not,  it  is  for  the  reader  to 
decide — Mrs.  Merton  returned  to  the  room. 


lid  ALICE;    Ok,  1*tt£  MYStERtfig. 

She  apologized  for  her  absence — talked  of  Mrs.  Hare,  and 
the  little  Master  Hares — fine  boys,  but  noisy ;  and  tlien  she 
asked  Maltravers  if  he  had  seen  Lord  Vargrave  since  his  lord- 
ship had  been  in  the  county. 

Maltravers  replied  with  coldness,  that  he  had  not  had  that 
honor ;  that  Vargrave  had  called  on  him  in  his  way  from  the 
rectory  the  other  day,  but  that  he  was  from  home,  and  that  he 
had  not  seen  him  for  some  years. 

"  He  is  a  person  of  most  prepossessing  manners,"  said  Mrs. 
Merton. 

"  Certainly — most  prepossessing." 

"And  very  clever." 

"He  has  great  talents." 

"He  seems  most  amiable." 

Maltravers  bowed,  and  glanced  towards  Evelyn,  whose  face, 
however,  was  turned  from  him. 

The  turn  the  conversation  had  taken  was  painful  to  the  visitor, 
and  he  rose  to  depart. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  "you  will  meet  Lord  Vargrave 
at  dinner  to-morrow  ;  he  will  stay  with  us  a  few  days — as  long 
as  he  can  be  spared." 

Maltravers  meet  Lord  Vargrave ! — the  happy  Vargrave  ! — 
the  betrothed  to  Evelyn ! — Maltravers  witness  the  familiar 
rights — the  enchanting  privileges  accorded  to  another  ! — and 
that  other  one  whom  he  could  not  believe  worthy  of  Evelyn  ! 
He  writhed  at  the  picture  the  invitation  conjured  up. 

"You  are  very  kind,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton,  but  I  expect  a 
visitor  at  Burleigh — an  old  and  dear  friend,  Mr.  Cleveland." 

"  Mr.  Cleveland  ! — we  shall  be  delighted  to  see  him  too.  We 
knew  him  many  years  ago,  during  your  minority,  when  he  used 
to  visit  Burleigh  two  or  three  times  a  year." 

"  He  is  changed  since  then  ;  he  is  often  an  invalid.  I  fear  I 
cannot  answer  for  him  ;  but  he  will  call  as  soon  as  he  arrives, 
and  apologize  for  himself."  ♦ 

Maltravers  then  hastily  took  his  departure.  He  would  not 
trust  himself  to  do  more  than  bow  distantly  to  Evelyn ;  she 
looked  at  him  reproachfully.  So,  then,  it  was  really  premedi- 
tated and  resolved  upon — his  absence  from  the  rectory — and 
why  ? — she  was  grieved — she  was  offended — but  more  grieved 
than  offended — perhaps  because  esteem,  interest,  admiration, 
are  more  tolerant  and  charitable  than  Love ! 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  Ill 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Arethusa.     'Tis  well,  my  lord,  you're  courting  of  ladies. 
*  *  *  *  n.  * 

Claremont.     Sure  this  lady  has  a  good  turn  done  her  against  her  will." 

— Philaster, 

In  the  breakfast-room  at  Knaresdean,  the  same  day,  and 
almost  at  the  same  hour,  in  wliich  occurred  the  scene  and  con- 
versation at  the  rectory  recorded  in  our  last  chapter,  sate  Lord 
Vargrave  and  Caroline  alone.  The  party  had  dispersed,  as  was 
usual,  at  noon.  They  heard  at  a  distance  the  sounds  of  the  bil- 
liard balls.  Lord  Doltimore  was  playing  with  Colonel  Legard, 
one  ©f  the  best  players  in  Europe,  but  who,  fortunately  for  Dol- 
timore, had,  of  late,  made  it  a  rule  never  to  play  for  money. 
Mrs.  and  the  Misses  Cipher,  and  most  of  the  guests,  were  in  the 
billiard-room  looking  on.  Lady  Raby  was  writing  letters,  and 
Lord  Raby  riding  over  his  home  farm.  Caroline  and  Lumley 
had  been  for  some  time  in  close  and  earnest  conversation.  Miss 
Merton  was  seated  in  a  large  armchair,  much  moved,  with  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  Lord  Vargrave  with  his  back  to  the 
chimney-piece,  was  bending  down,  and  speaking  in  a  very  low 
voice,  while  his  quick  eye  glanced,  ever  and  anon,  from  the 
lady's  countenance  to  the  windows — to  the  doors,  to  be  prepared 
against  any  interruption. 

"  No,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  believe  me  that  I  am  sincere. 
My  feelings  for  you  are,  indeed,  such  as  no  words  can  paint." 

"  Then  why— " 

"Why  wish  you  wedded  to  another — why  wed  another  my- 
self ?  Caroline,  I  have  often  before  explained  to  you  that  we 
are  in  this  the  victims  of  an  inevitable  fate.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  I  should  wed  Miss  Cameron.  I  never  deceived 
you  from  the  first.  I  should  have  loved  her, — my  heart  would 
have  accompanied  my  hand,  but  for  your  too  seductive  beauty, 
— your  superior  mind  ! — yes,  Caroline,  your  mind  attracted  me 
more  than  your  beauty.  Your  mind  seemed  kindred  to  my 
own — inspired  with  the  proper  and  wise  ambition  which  regards 
the  fools  of  the  world  as  puppets — as  counters — as  chessmen. 
For  myself,  a  very  angel  from  heaven  could  not  make  me  give 
up  the  game  of  life ! — yield  to  my  enemies — slip  from  the  lad- 
der— unravel  the  web  I  have  woven  !  Share  my  heart — my 
friendship — my  schemes  !  this  is  the  true  and  dignified  affection 
that  should  exist  between  minds  like  ours ;  all  the  rest  is  the 
prejudice  of  children." 


112  ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"  Vargrave,  I  am  ambitious — worldly  :  I  own  it,  but  I  could 
give  up  all  for  you  ! " 

"  You  think  so,  for  you  do  not  know  the  sacrifice.  You  see 
me  now  apparently  rich — in  power — courted  ;  and  this  fate  you 
are  willing  to  share  ; — and  this  fate  you  should  share,  were  it  the 
real  one  I  could  bestow  on  you.  But  reverse  the  medal.  De- 
prived of  office — fortune  gone — debts  pressing — destitution  no- 
torious— the  ridicule  of  embarrassments — the  disrepute  attached 
to  poverty  and  defeated  ambition — an  exile  in  some  foreign  town 
on  the  poor  pension  ^.o  which  alone  I  should  be  entitled — a  men- 
dicant on  the  public  purse ;  and  that,  too,  so  ate  into  by  de- 
mands and  debts,  that  there  is  not  a  grocer  in  the  next  market- 
town  who  would  envy  the  income  of  the  retired  minister !  Re- 
tire, fallen — despised,— in  the  prime  of  life — in  the  zenith  of  my 
hopes  !  Suppose  that  I  could  bear  this  for  myself — could  1  bear 
it  for  you  ?  You,  born  to  be  the  ornament  of  courts  !  and 
you, — could  you  see  me  thus  ?  life  embittered — career  lost — and 
feel,  generous  as  you  are,  that  your  love  had  entailed  on  me — 
on  us  both — on  our  children — this  miserable  lot !  Impossible, 
Caroline  !  we  are  too  wise  for  such  romance.  It  is  not  because 
we  love  too  little,  but  because  our  love  is  worthy  of  each  other, 
that  we  disdain  to  make  love  a  curse !  We  cannot  wrestle 
against  the  world,  but  w^e  may  shake  hands  with  it,  and  worm 
the  miser  out  of  its  treasures.  My  heart  must  be  ever  yours — 
my  hand  must  be  Miss  Cameron's.  Money  I  must  have  ! — my 
whole  career  depends  on  it.  It  is  literally  with  me  the  highway- 
man's choice — money  or  life." 

Vargrave  paused,  and  took  Caroline's  hand. 

**  I  cannot  reason  with  you,"  said  she  ;  "  you  know  the  strange 
empire  you  have  obtained  over  me,  and,  certainly,  in  spite  of  all 
that  has  passed  (and  Caroline  turned  pale)  I  could  bear  any- 
thing rather  than  that  you  should  hereafter  reproach  me  for 
selfish  disregard  of  your  interests — your  just  ambition." 

"  My  noble  friend  !  I  do  not  say  that  I  shall  not  feel  a  deep 
and  sharp  pang  at  seeing  you  wed  another, — but  I  shall  be  con- 
soled by  the  thought  that  I  have  assisted  to  procure  for  you  a 
station  worthier  of  your  merits  than  that  which  I  can  offer. 
Lord  Doltimore  is  rich — you  will  teach  him  to  employ  his  riches 
well — he  is  weak — your  intellect  will  govern  him  ;  he  is  in  love — 
your  beauty  will  suffice  to  preserve  his  regard.  Ah,  we  shall  be 
dear  friends  to  the  last !  " 

More — but  to  the  same  effect — did  this  able  and  crafty  villain 
continue  to  address  to  Caroline,  whom  he  alternately  soothed, 
irritated,  flattered,  and  revolted,    Love  him  she  pertainly  did, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  llj 

as  far  as  love  in  her  could  extend  ;  but  perhaps  his  rank,  liis 
reputation,  had  served  to  win  her  affection ;  and,  not  knowing 
his  embarrassments,  she  had  encouraged  a  worldly  hope  that  if 
Evelyn  should  reject  his  hand  it  might  be  offered  to  her.  Under 
this  impression  she  had  trifled,  she  had  coquetted,  she  had 
played  with  the  serpent  till  it  had  coiled  around  her — and  she 
could  not  escape  its  fascination  and  its  folds..  She  was  sincere — 
she  could  have  resigned  much  for  Lord  Vargrave  ;  but  his  pic- 
ture startled  and  appalled  her.  For  difficulties  in  a  palace  she 
might  be  prepared — perhaps  even  for  some  privations  in  a  cot- 
ta^^e  orn^e — but  certainly  not  for  penury  in  a  lodging-house ! 
She  listened  by  degrees  with  more  attention  to  Vargrave's  de- 
scription of  the  power  and  homage  that  would  be  hers  if  she 
could  secure  Lord  Doltimore  :  she  listened,  and  was  in  part 
consoled.  But  the  thought  of  Evelyn  again  crossed  her  ;  and, 
perhaps,  with  natural  jealousy  was  mingled  some  compunction 
at  the  fate  to  which  Lord  Vargrave  thus  coldly  appeared  to  con- 
demn one  so  lovely  and  so  innocent. 

"  But  do  not,  Vargrave,"  she  said,  "do  not  be  too  sanguine  ; 
Evelyn  may  reject  you.  She  does  not  see  you  with  my  eyes  ;  it 
is  only  a  sense  of  honor  that,  as  yet,  forbids  her  openly  to  refuse 
the  fulfilment  of  an  engagement  from  which  I  know  that  she 
shrinks  ;  and  if  she  does  refuse, — and  you  be  free, — and  I  an- 
other's— " 

"  Even  in  that  case,"  interrupted  Vargrave,  "  I  must  turn  to 
the  Golden  Idol ;  my  rank  and  name  must  buy  me  an  heiress, 
if  not  so  endowed  as  Evelyn,  wealthy  enough,  at  least,  to  take 
from  my  wheels  the  drag-chain  of  disreputable  debt.  But  Eve- 
lyn— I  will  not  doubt  of  her  ! — her  heart  is  still  unoccupied  ?" 

"  True,  as  yet  her  affections  are  not  engaged." 

"And  this  Maltravers — she  is  romantic,  I  fancy — did  he  seem 
captivated  by  her  beauty  or  her  fortune?" 

'*  No,  indeed,  I  think  not  ;  he  has  been  very  little  with  us  of 
late.  He  talked  to  her  more  as  to  a  child  ;  there  is  a  disparity 
of  years." 

"  I  am  many  years  older  than  Maltravers,"  muttered  Vargrave, 
moodily. 

"  You  ! — but  yoMx  manner  is  livelier,  and,  therefore,  younger  ! " 

"  Fair  flatterer !  Maltravers  does  not  love  me :  1  fear  his 
report  of  my  character — " 

"  I  never  heard  him  speak  of  you,  Vargrave  ;  and  I  will  do 
Evelyn  the  justice  to  say,  that  precisely  as  she  does  not  love  she 
esteems  and  respects  you." 

"Esteems— respects— these  are  the  feelings  for  a  prudent 


114  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

Hymen,"  said  Vargrave,  with  a  smile.  "  But,  hark  !  I  don't 
hear  the  billiard  balls ;  they  may  find  us  here — we  had  better 
separate." 

Lord  Vargrave  lounged  into  the  billiard-room.  The  young 
men  had  just  finished  playing,  and  were  about  to  visit  Thun- 
derer, who  had  won  the  race,  and  was  now  the  property  of  Lord 
Doltimore. 

Vargrave  accompanied  them  to  the  stables  ;  and,  after  con- 
cealing his  ignorance  of  horseflesh  as  well  as  he  could,  beneath 
a  profusion  of  compliments  on  fore-hand,  hind-quarters,  breed- 
ing, bone,  substance,  and  famous  points,  he  contrived  to  draw 
Doltimore  into  the  courtyard,  while  Colonel  Legard  remained 
in  converse  high  with  the  head-groom. 

"  Doltimore,  I  leave  Knaresdean  to-morrow  ;  you  go  to  Lon- 
don, I  suppose  ?  Will  you  take  a  little  packet  for  me  to  the 
Home  Office?" 

"  Certainly,  when  I  go  ;  but  I  think  of  staying  a  few  days  with 
Legard's  uncle,  the  old  admiral ;  he  has  a  hunti«ig-box  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  has  asked  us  both  over." 

"  Oh  !  I  can  detect  the  attraction  ;  but  certainly  it  is  a  fair 
one — the  handsomest  girl  in  the  county  ;  pity  she  has  no  money." 

"I  don't  care  for  money,"  said  Lord  Doltimore,  coloring  and 
settling  his  neckcloth  ;  "but  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  no  thoughts 
that  way.  Miss  Merton  is  a  very  fine  girl ;  but  I  doubt  much  if 
she  cares  for  me.  I  would  never  marry  any  woman  who  was 
not  very  much  in  love  with  me."  And  Lord  Doltimore  laughed 
rather  foolishly. 

"  You  are  more  modest  than  clear-sighted,"  said  Vargrave, 
smiling  ;  "but  mark  my  words  :  I  predict  that  the  beauty  of  next 
season  will  be  a  certain  Caroline  Lady  Doltimore !  " 

The  conversation  dropped. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  settled  well,"  said  Vargrave  to  himself, 
as  he  was  dressing  for  dinner.  "  Caroline  will  manage  Dolti- 
more, and  I  shall  manage  one  vote  in  the  Lords  and  three  in  the 
Commons.  I  have  already  talked  him  into  proper  politics ;  a 
trifle,  all  this  to  be  sure  :  but  I  had  nothing  else  to  amuse  me, 
and  one  must  never  lose  an  occasion.  Besides,  Doltimore  is 
rich,  and  rich  friends  are  always  useful.  I  have  Caroline,  too, 
in  my  power,  and  she  may  be  of  service  with  respect  to  this 
Evelyn,  whom,  instead  of  loving,  I  half  hate  :  she  has  crossed 
my  path,  robbed  me  of  wealth  ;  and  now — if  she  does  refuse 
me— — but  no,  I  will  not  think  of  that!'' 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES,  II5 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Out  of  our  reach  the  gods  have  laid 
Of  time  to  come  the  event  ; 
And  laugh  to  see  the  fools  afraid 
Of  what  the  knaves  invent." — S^duey ,  from  Lycophron. 

The  next  day  Caroline  returned  to  the  rectory  in  Lady  Raby's 
carriage  ;  and  two  hours  after  her  arrival  came  Lord  Vargrave. 
Mr.  Merton  had  secured  the  principal  persons  in  the  neighbor- 
hood to  meet  a  guest  so  distinguished,  and  Lord  Vargrave,  bent 
on  shining  in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn,  charmed  all  with  his  affability 
and  wit.  Evelyn  he  thought  seemed  pale  and  dispirited.  He 
pertinaciously  devoted  himself  to  her  all  the  evening.  Her 
ripening  understanding  was  better  able  than  heretofore  to  appre- 
ciate his  abilities  ;  yet,  inwardly,  she  drew  comparisons  between 
his  conversation  and  that  of  Maltravers,  not  to  the  advantage  of 
the  former.  There  was  much  that  amused,  but  nothing  that 
interested,  in  Lord  Vargrave's  fluent  ease.  When  he  attempted 
sentiment,  the  vein  was  hard  and  hollow  ;  he  was  only  at  home 
on  worldly  topics.  Caroline's  spirits  were,  as  usual  in  society, 
high,  but  her  laugh  seemed  forced,  and  her  eye  absent. 

The  next  day,  after  breakfast,  Lord  Vargrave  walked  alone  to 
Burleigh :  as  he  crossed  the  copse  that  bordered  the  park,  a 
large  Persian  greyhound  sprang  towards  him,  barking  loudly ; 
and,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  perceived  the  form  of  a  man  walking 
slowly  along  one  of  the  paths  that  intersected  the  wood.  He 
recognized  Maltravers.  They  had  not  till  then  encountered 
since  their  meeting  a  few  weeks  before  Florence's  death  ;  and  a 
pang  of  conscience  came  across  the  schemer's  cold  heart.  Years 
rolled  away  from  the  past ;  he  recalled  the  young,  generous, 
ardent  man,  whom,  ere  the  character  and  career  of  either  had 
been  developed,  he  had  called  his  friend.  He  remembered  their 
wild  adventures  and  gay  follies,  in  climes  where  they  had  been 
all  in  all  to  each  other ;  and  the  beardless  boy,  whose  heart  and 
purse  were  ever  open  to  him,  and  to  whose  very  errors  of  youth 
and  inexperienced  passion,  he,  the  elder  and  the  wiser,  had  led 
and  tempted,  rose  before  him  in  contrast  to  the  grave  and  mel- 
ancholy air  of  the  baffled  and  solitary  man,  who  now  slowly 
approached  him, — the  man  whese  proud  career  he  had  served 
to  thwart ;  whose  heart  his  schemes  had  prematurely  soured  ; 
whose  best  years  had  been  consumed  in  exile  ;  a  sacrifice  to  the 
grave,  which  a  selfish  and  dishonorable  villainy  had  prepared ! 
Cesarini,  the  inmate  of  a  madhouse  ;  Florence  in  her  shroud, — 
such  were  the  visions  the  sight  of  Maltravers  conjured  up.   And 


ii6  Alice;   o^,  the  mysteries. 

to  the  soul  which  the  unwonted  and  momentary  remorse  awak- 
ened, a  boding  voice  whispered,  "And  thinkest  thou  that  thy 
schemes  shall  prosper,  and  thy  aspirations  succeed  ?"  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps,  the  unimaginative  Vargrave  felt 
the  mystery  of  a  presentiment  of  warning  and  of  evil. 

The  two  men  met ;  and  with  an  emotion  which  seemed  that 
of  honest  and  real  feeling,  Lumley  silently  held  out  his  hand, 
and  half  turned  away  his  head. 

"  Lord  Vargrave  ! "  said  Maltravers,  with  an  equal  agitation, 
"it  is  long  since  we  have  encountered." 

"  Long — very  long,"  answered  Lumley,  striving  hard  to  re- 
gain his  self-possession  ;  "years  have  changed  us  both  ;  but  I 
trust  it  has  still  left  in  you,  as  it  has  in  me,  the  remembrance 
of  our  old  friendship." 

Maltravers  was  silent,  and  Lord  Vargrave  continued — 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  Maltravers  :  can  political  differ- 
ences, opposite  pursuits,  or  the  mere  lapse  of  time,  have  suf- 
ficed to  create  an  irrevocable  gulf  between  us  ?  Why  may  we 
not  be  friends  again  ? " 

"  Friends  !  "  echoed  Maltravers  ;  "  at  our  age  that  word  is 
not  so  lightly  spoken — that  tie  is  not  so  unthinkingly  formed — 
as  when  we  were  younger  men." 

"But  may  not  the  old  tie  be  renewed?" 

"  Our  ways  in  life  are  different ;  and  were  I  to  scan  your 
motives  and  career  with  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  friendship,  it 
might  only  serve  to  separate  us  yet  more.  I  am  sick  of  the 
great  juggle  of  ambition,  and  I  have  no  sympathy  left  for 
those  who  creep  into  the  pint-bottle,  or  swallow  the  naked 
sword." 

"  If  you  despise  the  exhibition,  why,  then,  let  us  laugh  at  it 
together,  for  I  am  as  cynical  as  yourself." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Maltravers  with  a  smile,  half  mournful,  half 
bitter,  "but  are  you  not  one  of  the  Impostors?" 

"  Who  ought  better  to  judge  of  the  Eleusiniana  than  one  of 
the  Initiated  ?  But,  seriously,  why  on  earth  should  political 
differences  part  private  friendships?  Thank  Heaven!  such  has 
never  been  my  maxim." 

"  If  the  differences  be  the  result  of  honest  convictions  on 
either  side,  No.     But  are  you  honest,  Lumley  ? " 

"  Faith,  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  thinking  so  ;  and  habit's 
a  second  nature.  However,  I  dare  say  we  shall  meet  yet  in 
the  arena,  so  I  must  not  betray  my  weak  points.  How  is  it, 
Maltravers,  that  they  see  so  little  of  you  at  the  rectory  ?  you 
aie  a  great  favorite  there.     Have  you  any  living  that  Charley 


Alice;   or,  the  mysteries.  117 

Merton  could  hold  wilh  his  own  ? — You  shake  your  head. 
And  what  think  you  of  Miss  Cameron,  my  intended  ?" 

"  You  speak  lightly.     Perhaps  you — " 

"  Feel  deeply — you  were  going  to  sa)\  I  do.  In  the  hand 
of  my  ward,  Evelyn  Cameron,  1  trust  to  obtain  at  once  the 
domestic  happiness  to  which  I  have  as  yet  been  a  stranger,  and 
the  wealth  necessary  to  my  career." 

Lord  Vargrave  continued,  after  a  short  pause,  **  Though  my 
avocations  have  separated  us  so  much,  I  have  no  doubt  of  her 
steady  affection, — and  I  may  add,  of  her  sense  of  honor.  She 
alone  can  repair  to  me  what  else  had  been  injustice  in  my 
uncle."  He  then  proceeded  to  repeat  the  moral  obligations 
which  the  late  lord  had  imposed  on  Evelyn  ; — obligations  that 
he  greatly  magnified.  Maltravers  listened  attentively,  and  said 
little. 

"And  these  obligations  being  fairly  considered,"  added  Var- 
grave, with  a  smile,  "  I  think,  even  had  I  rivals,  that  they  could 
scarcely  in  honor  attempt  to  break  an  existing  engagement." 

"  Not  while  the  engagement  lasted,"  answered  Maltravers : 
"  not  till  one  or  the  other  had  declined  to  fulfil  it,  and  therefore 
left  both  free  ;  but  I  trust  it  will  be  an  alliance  in  which  all  but 
affection  will  be  forgotten — that  of  honor  alone  would  be  but  a 
harsh  tie." 

"Assuredly,"  said  Vargrave;  and,  as  if  satisfied  with  what 
had  passed,  he  turned  the  conversation — praised  Burleigh — 
spoke  of  county  matters — resumed  his  habitual  gayety,  though 
it  was  somewhat  subdued — and,  promising  to  call  again  soon, 
he  at  last  took  his  leave. 

Maltravers  pursued  his  solitary  rambles  ;  and  his  commune 
with  himself  was  stern  and  searching. 

"And  so,"  thought  he,  "this  prize  is  reserved  for  Vargrave  ! 
Why  should  I  deem  him  unworthy  of  the  treasure  ?  May  he 
not  be  worthier,  at  all  events,  than  this  soured  temper  and  err- 
ing heart  ?  And  he  is  assured  too  of  her  affection  !  Why  this 
jealous  pang  !  Why  can  the  fountain  within  never  be  exhausted  ? 
Why,  through  so  many  scenes  and  sufferings,  have  I  still  re- 
tained the  vain  madness  of  my  youth — the  haunting  suscepti- 
bility to  love  ?     This  is  my  latest  folly." 


Il8  ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 


BOOK   IV. 


Ead^g  a/ieivov. — SlMONlDES. 
A  virtuous  woman  is  man's  greatest  pride. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Abroad  uneasy,  nor  content  at  home. 
*  *  »  *  * 

And  Wisdom  shows  the  ill  without  the  cure." 

— Hammond  :  Ekgies, 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  interview  between  Lord  Vargrave 
and  Maltravers,  the  solitude  of  Burleigh  was  relieved  by  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Cleveland.  The  good  old  gentleman,  when  free 
from  attacks  of  the  gout,  which  were  nov/  somewhat  more  fre- 
quent than  formerly,  was  the  same  cheerful  and  intelligent 
person  as  ever.  Amiable,  urbane,  accomplished,  and  benev- 
olent— there  was  just  enough  worldliness  in  Cleveland's  nature 
to  make  his  views  sensible  as  far  as  they  went,  but  to  bound 
their  scope.  Everything  he  said  was  so  rational — and  yet,  to 
an  imaginative  person,  his  conversation  was  unsatisfactory,  and 
his  philosophy  somewhat  chilling. 

"I  cannot  say  how  pleased  and  surprised  I  am  at  your  care 
of  the  fine  old  place,"  said  he  to  Maltravers,  as,  leaning  on  his 
cane  and  his  cidevant  pupil's  arm,  he  loitered  observantly 
through  the  grounds — "  1  see  everywhere  the  presence  of  the 
Master." 

And  certainly  the  praise  was  deserved  ! — the  gardens  were 
now  in  order — the  dilapidated  fences  were  repaired — the  weeds 
no  longer  encumbered  the  walks — Nature  was  just  assisted  and 
relieved  by  Art,  without  being  oppressed  by  too  officious  a  ser- 
vice from  her  handmaid.  In  the  house  itself,  some  suitable  and 
appropriate  repairs  and  decorations — with  such  articles  of 
furniture  as  combined  modern  comfort  with  the  ancient  and 
picturesque  shapes  of  a  former  fashion — had  redeemed  the 
mansion  from  all  appearance  of  dreariness  and  neglect,  while 
still  was  left  to  its  quaint  halls  and  chambers  the  character 
which  belonged  to  their  architecture  and  associations.  It  was 
surprising  how  much  a  little  exercise  of  simple  taste  had 
effected. 


ALICE;    Ofe,  THE   MYSTERIES.  ll^ 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve  what  I  have  done,"  said  Maltravers. 
"  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  the  desolation  of  the  place,  when 
I  returned  to  it,  reproached  me.  We  cantract  friendship  with 
places  as  with  human  beings,  and  fancy  they  have  claims  upon 
us  ; — at  least  that  is  my  weakness." 

**  And  an  amiable  one  it  is,  too — I  share  it.  As  for  me,  I  look 
upon  Temple  Grove  as  a  fond  husband  upon  a  fair  wife.  I  am 
always  anxious  to  adorn  it,  and  as  proud  of  its  beauty  as  if  it 
could  understand  and  thank  me  for  my  partial  admiration. 
When  I  leave  you,  I  intend  going  to  Paris,  for  the  purpose  of 

attending  a  sale  of  the  pictures  and  effects  of  Monsieur  De . 

These  auctions  are  to  me  what  a  jeweller's  shop  is  to  a  lover ; 
but  then,  Ernest,  I  am  an  old  bachelor." 

"And  I, too, am  an  Arcadian,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  not  too  old  for  repentance.  Burleigh  now 
requires  nothing  but  a  mistress." 

"  Perhaps  it  may  soon  receive  that  addition.  I  am  yet  un- 
decided whether  I  shall  sell  it." 

"  Sell  it ! — sell  Burleigh  ! — the  last  memorial  of  your  mother's 
ancestry ! — the  classic  retreat  of  the  graceful  Digbys  !  Sell 
Burleigh  ! " 

"  I  had  almost  resolved  to  do  so  when  I  came  hither  :  then 
I  foreswore  the  intention  ;  now  again  I  sometimes  sorrowfully 
return  to  the  idea." 

"  And  in  Heaven's  name  why  ?" 

"  My  old  restlessness  returns.  Busy  myself  as  I  will  here,  I 
find  the  range  of  action  monotonous  and  confined.  I  began  too 
soon  to  draw  around  me  the  large  circumference  of  literature 
and  action  ;  and  the  small  provincial  sphere  seems  to  me  a  sad 
going  back  in  life.  Perhaps  I  should  not  feel  this,  were  my 
home  less  lonely  ;  but  as  it  is — no,  the  wanderer's  .ban  is  on 
me,  and  I  again  turn  towards  the  lands  of  excitement  and 
adventure." 

"  I  understand  this,  Ernest ;  but  why  is  your  home  so  solitary  ? 
You  are  still  at  the  age  in  which  wise  and  congenial  unions  are 
the  most  frequently  formed  ;  your  temper  is  domestic — your 
easy  fortune  and  sobered  ambition  allow  you  to  choose  without 
reference  to  worldly  considerations.  Look  round  the  world,  and 
mix  with  the  world  again  ;  and  give  Burleigh  the  mistress  it 
requires." 

Maltravers  shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"I  do  not  say,"  continued  Cleveland,  wrapt  up  in  the  glow- 
ing interest  of  the  theme,  "that  you  should  marry  a  mere  girl — 
but  an  amiable  woman,  who^  like  yourself,  has  seen  something 


l20  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MVSTERlES, 

of  life,  and  knows  how  to  reckon  on  its  cares,  and  to  be  con- 
tented with  its  enjoyments." 

"You  have  said  enough,"  said  Maltravers  impatiently  ;  "an 
experienced  woman  of  the  world,  whose  freshness  of  hope  and 
heart  is  gone  !  What  a  picture  !  No ;  to  me  there  is  some- 
thing inexpressibly  beautiful  in  innocence  and  youth.  But  you 
say  justly — my  years  are  not  those  that  would  make  a  union 
with  youth  desirable,  or  well  suited." 

"I  do  not  say  that,"  said  Cleveland,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff; 
"but  you  should  avoid  great  disparity  of  age — not  for  the  sake 
of  that  disparity  itself,  but  because  with  it  is  involved  discord 
of  temper — pursuits.  A  very  young  woman,  new  to  the  world, 
will  not  be  contented  with  home  alone  ;  you  are  at  once  too 
gentle  to  curb  her  wishes,  and  a  little  too  stern  and  reserved — • 
(pardon  me  for  saying  so) — to  be  quite  congenial  to  very  early 
and  sanguine  youth." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a  tone  of  voice  that  showed 
he  was  struck  with  the  remark  ;  "but  how  have  we  fallen  on 
this  subject  ?  let  us  change  it — I  have  no  idea  of  marriage — 
the  gloomy  reminiscence  of  Florence  Lascelles  chains  me  to 
the  past."i 

"Poor  Florence  ! — she  might  once  have  suited  you,  but  now 
you  are  older,  and  would  require  a  calmer  and  more  malleable 
temper." 

"  Peace,  I  implore  you  ! " 

The  conversation  was  changed  ;  and  at  noon  Mr.  Merton,who 
had  heard  of  Cleveland's  arrival,  called  at  Burleigh  to  renew  an 
old  acquaintance.  He  invited  them  to  pass  the  evening  at  the 
rectory ;  and  Cleveland,  hearing  that  whist  was  a  regular 
amusement,  accepted  the  invitation  for  his  host  and  himself. 
But  when  the  evening  came,  Maltravers  pleaded  indisposition, 
and  Cleveland  was  obliged  to  go  alone. 

When  the  old  gentleman  returned,  about  midnight,  he  found 
Maltravers  awaiting  him  in  the  library  ;  and  Cleveland,  having 
won  fourteen  points,  was  in  a  very  gay,  conversible  humor. 

"  You  perverse  hermit !  "  said  he,  "  talk  of  solitude,  indeed, 
with  so  pleasant  a  family  a  hundred  yards  distant  !  You  de- 
serve to  be  solitary — I  have  no  patience  with  you.  They  com- 
plain bitterly  of  your  desertion,  and  say  you  were,  at  first,  the 
enfant  de  la  maison." 

"  So  you  like  the  Mertons  ?  The  clergyman  is  sensible,  but 
commonplace." 

"A  very  agreeable  man,  despite  your  cynical  definition,  and 
plays  a  very  fair  rubber.     But  Vargrave  is  a  first-rate  player." 


ALICE  ;    Oft,  THE   MYSTERIES.  til 

"  Vargrave  is  there  still  !  " 

"Yes,  he  breakfasts  with  us  to-morrow — he  invited  himself.'* 

"  Humph ! " 

"  He  played  one  rubber ;  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw — Miss  Cameron.  What 
a  sweet  face  ! — so  modest,  yet  so  intelUgent !  I  talked  with 
her  a  good  deal  during  the  deals  in  which  I  cut  out.  I  almost 
lost  my  heart  to  her." 

"  So  Lord  Vargrave  devoted  himself  to  Miss  Cameron  ?" 

"  To  be  sure, — you  know  they  are  to  be  married  soon.  Mer- 
ton  told  me  so.  She  is  very  rich.  He  is  the  luckiest  fellow 
imaginable,  that  Vargrave  !  But  he  is  much  too  old  for  her : 
she  seems  to  think  so  too.  I  can't  explain  why  I  think  it  ;  but 
by  her  pretty  reserved  manner  I  saw  that  she  tried  to  keep  the 
gay  minister  at  a  distance  :  but  it  would  not  do.  Now,  if  you 
were  ten  years  younger,  or  Miss  Cameron  ten  years  older,  you 
might  have  had  some  chance  of  cutting  out  your  old  friend." 

"So  you  think  I  also  am  too  old  for  a  lover?" 

"  For  a  lover  of  a  girl  of  seventeen,  certainly.  You  seem 
touchy  on  the  score  of  age,  Ernest." 

"Not  I,  "  and   Maltravers  laughed. 

"No  !  There  was  a  young  gentleman  present,  who,  I  think, 
Vargrave  might  really  find  a  dangerous  rival — a  Colonel 
Legard — one  of  the  handsomest  men  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  ; 
just  the  style  to  turn  a  romantic  young  lady's  head  ;  a  mixture 
of  the  wild  and  the  thoroughbred  ;  black  curls — superb  eyes — 
and  the  softest  manners  in  the  world.  But,  to  be  sure,  he  has 
lived  all  his  life  in  the  best  society.  Not  so  his  friend.  Lord 
Doltimore,  who  has  a  little  too  much  of  the  green-room  lounge 
and  French  ^^// manner  for  my  taste." 

"  Doltimore — Legard — names  new  to  me  ;  I  never  met  them 
at  the  rectory." 

"  Possibly ;  they  are  staying  at  Admiral  Legard's,  in  the 
neighborhood.  Miss  Merton  made  their  acquaintance  at 
Knaresdean.  A  good  old  lady — the  most  perfect  Mrs.  Grundy 
one  would  wish  to  meet  with — who  owns  the  monosyllabic  ap- 
pellation of.  Hare  (and  who,  being  my  partner,  trumped  my 
king  !),  assured  me  that  Lord  Doltimore  was  desperately  in  love 
with  Caroline  Merton.  By  the  way,  now,  there  is  a  young  lady 
of  a  proper  age  for  you — handsome  and  clever,  too." 

"You  talk  of  antidotes  to  matrimony: — and  so  Miss 
Cameron — " 

"  Oh,  no  more  of  Miss  Cameron  now,  or  I  shall  sit  up  all 
night  ;  she  has  half  turned  my  head.     I  can't  help  pitying  her — • 


122  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES, 

married  to  one  so  careless  and  worldly  as  Lord  Vargrave — • 
thrown  so  young  into  the  whirl  of  London.  Poor  thing  !  she 
had  better  have  fallen  in  love  with  Legard  ;  which  I  dare  say 
she  will  do,  after  all.     Well,  good-night  !  " 


CHAPTER   IL 

"  Passion,  as  frequently  is  seen. 
Subsiding,  settles  into  spleen  : 
Hence,  as  the  plague  of  happy  life, 
I  ran  away  from  parly  strife." — Mathew  GreEN. 

"  Here  nymphs  from  hollow  oaks  relate 
The  dark  decrees  and  will  of  fate." — Ibid. 

According  to  his  engagement,  Vargrave  breakfasted  the 
next  morning  at  Burleigh.  Maltravers,  at  first,  struggled  to 
return  his  familiar  cordiality  with  equal  graciousness.  Con- 
demning himself  for  former  and  unfounded  suspicions,  he 
wrestled  against  feelings  which  he  could  not,  or  would  not, 
analyze,  but  which  made  Lumley  an  unwelcome  visitor,  and 
connected  hiin  with  painful  associations,  whether  of  the  present 
or  the  past.  But  there  were  points  on  which  the  penetration 
of  Maltravers  served  to  justify  his  prepossessions. 

The  conversation,  chiefly  sustained  by  Cleveland  and  Var- 
grave, fell  on  public  questions  ;  and,  as  one  was  opposed  to  the 
other,  Vargrave's  exposition  of  views  and  motives  had  in  them 
so  much  of  the  self-seeking  of  the  professional  placeman,  that 
they  might  well  have  offended  any  man  tinged  by  the  lofty 
mania  of  political  Quixotism.  It  was  with  a  strange  mixture 
of  feelings  that  Maltravers  listened  :  at  one  moment,  he  proudly 
congratulated  himself  on  having  quitted  a  career  where  such 
opinions  seemed  so  well  to  prosper  ;  at  another,  his  better  and 
juster  sentiments  awoke  the  long-dormant  combative  faculty, 
and  he  almost  longed  for  the  turbulent  but  sublime  arena,  in 
which  truths  are  vindicated  and  mankind  advanced. 

The  interview  did  not  serve  for  that  renewal  of  intimacy 
which  Vargrave  appeared  to  seek  ;  and  Maltravers  rejoiced 
when  the  placeman  took  his  departure. 

Lumley,  who  was  about  to  pay  a  morning  visit  to  Lord  Dol- 
timore,  had  borrowed  Mr.  Merton's  stanhope,  as  being  better 
adapted  than  any  statelier  vehicle  to  get  rapidly  through  the 
crossroads  which  led  to  Admiral  Legard's  house ;  and  as  he 
settled  himself  in  the  seat,  with  his  servant  by  his  side,  he  said 


Alice;    or,  the  mysteries.  123 

laughingly,  "I  almost  fancy  myself  naughty  Master  Lumley 
again  in  this  young-man-kind-of  two-wheeled  cockle-boat :  not 
dignified,  but  rapid,  eh  ?" 

And  Lumley's  face,  as  he  spoke,  had  in  it  so  much  of  frank 
gayety,  and  his  manner  was  so  simple,  that  Maltravers  could 
with  difficulty  fancy  him  the  same  man  who,  five  minutes 
before,  had  been  uttering  sentiments  that  might  have  become 
the  oldest-hearted  intriguer  whom  the  hot-bed  of  ambition  ever 
reared. 

As  soon  as  Lumley  was  gone,  Maltravers  left  Cleveland  alone 
to  write  letters  (Cleveland  was  an  exemplary  and  voluminous 
correspondent),  and  strolled  with  his  dogs  into  the  village. 
The  effect  which  the  presence  of  Maltravers  produced  among 
his  peasantry  was  one  that  seldom  failed  to  refresh  and  soothe 
his  most  bitter  and  disturbed  thoughts.  They  had  gradually 
(for  the  poor  are  quick-sighted)  become  sensible  of  his  justice — a 
finer  quality  than  many  that  seem  more  amiable.  They  felt  that 
his  real  object  was  to  make  them  better  and  happier;  and  they  had 
learned  to  see  that  the  means  he  adopted  generally  advanced  the 
end.  Besides,  if  sometimes  stern,  he  was  never  capricious  or  un- 
reasonable ;  and  then,  too,  he  would  listen  patiently  and  advise 
kindly.  They  were  a  little  in  awe  of  him,  but  the  awe  only  served 
to  make  them  more  industrious  and  orderly  ;  to  stimulate  the  idle 
man — to  reclaim  the  drunkard.  He  was  one  of  the  favorers  of 
the  small-allotment  system  ;  not,  indeed,  as  a  panacea,  but  as  one 
excellent  stimuknt  to  exertion  and  independence:  and  his  chosen 
rewards  for  good  conduct  were  in  such  comforts  as  served  to 
awaken,  amongst  those  hitherto  passive,  dogged,  and  hopeless,  a 
desire  to  better  and  improve  th^ir  condition.  Somehow  or  other, 
without  direct  alms,  the  good-wife  found  that  the  little  savings 
in  the  cracked  tea-pot,  or  the  old  stocking,  had  greatly  increased 
since  the  squire's  return  ;  while  her  husband  came  home  from 
his  moderate  cups  at  the  alehouse  more  sober  and  in  better  tem- 
per. Having  already  saved  something  was  a  great  reason  why 
he  should  save  more.  The  new  school,  too,  was  so  much  bet- 
ter conducted  than  the  old  one  ;  the  children  actually  liked  going 
there  ;  ^d  now  and  then  there  were  little  village  feasts  connected 
with  the  school-room  ;  play  and  work  were  joint  associations. 

And  Maltravers  looked  into  his  cottages,  and  looked  at  the 
allotment-ground  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  say  to  himself, 
*'  I  am  not  altogether  without  use  in  life."  But  as  he  pursued  his 
lonely  walk,  and  the  glow  of  self-approval  died  away  with  the 
scenes  that  called  it  forth,  tlie  cloud  again  settled  on  his  brow ; 
and  again  he  felt  that,   in    solitude,  the   passions   feed   upon 


124  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

the  heart.  As  he  thus  walked  along  the  green  lane,  and  the  in- 
sect life  of  summer  rustled  audibly  among  the  shadowy  hedges, 
and  along  the  thick  grass  that  sprang  up  on  either  side,  he  came 
suddenly  upon  a  little  group,  that  arrested  all  his  attention. 

It  was  a  woman  clad  in  rags,  bleeding,  and  seemingly  insen- 
sible, supported  by  the  overseer  of  the  parish  and  a  laborer. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Maltravers. 

"  A  poor  woman  has  been  knocked  down  and  run  over  by  a 
gentleman  in  a  gig,  your  honor,"  replied  the  overseer.  "  He 
stopped,  half  an  hour  ago,  at  my  house,  to  tell  me  that  she  was 
lying  on  fhe  road ;  and  he  has  given  me  two  sovereigns  for  her, 
your  honor.  But,  poor  cretur !  she  was  too  heavy  for  me  to  carry 
her,  and  I  was  forced  to  leave  her  and  call  Tom  to  help  me." 

"The  gentleman  might  have  stayed  to  see  what  were  the  con- 
sequences of  his  own  act,"  muttered  Maltravers,  as  he  examined 
the  wound  in  the  temple,  whence  the  blood  flowed  copiously. 

"He  said  he  was  in  a  great  hurry,  your  honor,"  said  the  vil- 
lage official,  overhearing  Maltravers.  "I  think  it  was  one  of 
the  grand  folks  up  at  the  Parsonage ;  for  I  know  it  was  Mr 
Merton's  bay  horse — he  is  a  hot  'un  ! " 

"  Does  the  poor  woman  live  in  the  neighborhood  ? — Do  you 
know  her?"  asked  Maltravers,  turning  from  the  contemplation 
of  this  new  instance  of  Vargrave's  selfishness  of  character. 

"  No  :  the  old  body  seems  quite  a  stranger  here — a  tramper, 
or  beggar,  I  think,  sir.  But  it  won't  be  a  settlement  if  we  take 
her  in  ;  and  we  can  carry  her  to  the  Chequer&,  up  the  village, 
your  honor." 

"What  is  the  nearest  house — your  own?" 

"Yes  ; — but  we  be  so  busy  now !  " 

"  She  shall  not  go  to  your  house,  and  be  neglected.  And  as 
for  the  public-house,  it  is  too  noisy :  we  must  move  her  to  the 
Hall." 

"Your  honor ! "  ejaculated  the  overseer,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  very  far ;  she  is  severely  hurt.  Get  a  hurdle — lay 
a  mattress  on  it.  Make  haste,  both  of  you ;  I  will  wait  here  till 
you  return." 

The  poor  woman  was  carefully  placed  on  the  grass  by  the  road- 
side, and  Maltravers  supported  her  head,  while  the  men  hastened 
to  T)bey  his  orders. 


ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I25 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Also  from  that  forked  hill,  the  boasted  seat 
Of  studious  Peace  and  mild  Philosophy, 
Indignant  murmurs  mote  be  heard  to  threat. "  — West. 

Mr.  Cleveland  wanted  to  enrich  one  of  his  letters  with  a 
quotation  from  Ariosto,  which  he  but  imperfectly  remembered. 
He  had  seen  the  book  he  wished  to  refer  to  in  the  little 
study,  the  day  before ;  and  he  quitted  the  library  to  search 
for  it. 

As  he  was  tumbling  over  some  volumes  that  lay  piled  on  the 
writing-table,  he  felt  a  student's  curiosity  to  discover  what  now 
constituted  his  host's  favorite  reading.  He  was  surprised  to  ob- 
serve, that  the  greater  portion  of  the  works  that,  by  the  doubled 
leaf  and  the  pencilled  reference,  seemed  most  frequently  con- 
sulted, were  not  of  a  literary  nature — they  were  chiefly  scientific; 
and  astronomy  seemed  the  chosen  science.  He  then  remem- 
bered that  he  had  heard  Maltravers  speaking  to  a  builder,  em- 
ployed on  the  recent  repairs,  on  the  subject  of  an  observatory. 
"This  is  very  strange,"  thought  Cleveland  ;  "he  gives  up  litera- 
ture, the  rewards  of  which  are  in  his  reach,  and  turns  to  science, 
at  an  age  too  late  to  discipline  his  mind  to  its  austere  training." 

Alas  !  Cleveland  did  not  understand  that  there  are  times  in 
life  when  imaginative  minds  seek  to  numb  and  to  blunt  imagi- 
nation. Still  less  did  he  feel  that,  when  we  perversely  refuse  to 
apply  our  active  faculties  to  the  catholic  interests  of  the  world, 
they  turn  morbidly  into  channels  of  research,  the  least  akin  to 
their  real  genius.  By  the  collision  of  minds  alone  does  each 
mind  discover  what  is  its  proper  product :  left  to  ourselves,  our 
talents  become  but  intellectual  eccentricities. 

Some  scattered  papers,  in  the  handwriting  of  Maltravers,  fell 
from  one  of  the  volumes.  Of  these,  a  few  were  but  algebraical 
calculations,  or  short  scientific  suggestions,  the  value  of  which 
Mr.  Cleveland's  studies  did  not  enable  him  to  ascertain  :  but  in 
others  they  were  wild  snatches  of  mournful  and  impassioned 
verse,  which  showed  that  the  old  vein  of  poetry  still  flowed, 
though  no  longer  to  the  daylight.  These  verses  Cleveland 
thought  himself  justified  in  glancing  over;  they  seemed  to  por- 
tray a  state  of  mind  which  deeply  interested,  and  greatly  sad- 
dened him.  They  expressed,  indeed,  a  firm  determination  to 
bear  up  against  both  the  memory  and  the  fear  of  ill ;  but  mys- 
terious and  hinted  allusions  here  and  there  served  to  denote  some 
recent  and  yet  existent  struggle,  revealed  by  the  heart  opljr  tg 


126  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

the  genius.  In  these  partial  and  imperfect  self-communings  and 
confessions,  there  was  the  evidence  of  the  pining  affections,  the 
wasted  life,  the  desolate  hearth  of  the  lonely  man.  Yet,  so  calm 
was  Maltravers  himself,  even  to  his  early  friend,  that  Cleveland 
knew  not  what  to  think  of  the  reality  of  the  feelings  painted. 
Had  that  fervid  and  romantic  spirit  been  again  awakened  by  a 
living  object? — if  so,  where  was  the  object  found?  The  dates 
affixed  to  the  verses  were  most  recent.  But  whom  had  Maltravers 
seen?  Cleveland's  thoughts  turned  to  Caroline  Merton — to 
Evelyn ;  but  when  he  had  spoken  of  both,  nothing  in  the 
countenance,  the  manner,  of  Maltravers  had  betrayed  emotion. 
And  once  the  heart  of  Maltravers  had  so  readily  betrayed  itself! 
Cleveland  knew  not  how  pride,  years,  and  suffering  school  the 
features,  and  repress  the  outward  signs  of  what  pass  within. 
While  thus  engaged,  the  door  of  the  study  opened  abruptly,  and 
the  servant  announced  Mr.  Merton. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  said  the  courteous  rector.  **  I  fear 
we  disturb  you  ;  but  Admiral  Legard  and  Lord  Doltimore,  who 
called  on  us  this  morning,  were  so  anxious  to  see  Burleigh,  I 
thought  I  might  take  the  liberty.  We  have  come  over  quite  in 
a  large  party — taken  the  place  by  storm.  Mr.  Maltravers  is 
out,  I  hear ;  but  you  will  let  us  see  the  house.  My  allies 
are  already  in  the  hall,  examining  the  armor." 

Cleveland,  ever  sociable  and  urbane,  answered  suitably,  and 
went  with  Mr.  Merton  into  the  hall,  where  Caroline,  her  little 
sisters,  Evelyn,  Lord  Doltimore,  Admiral  Legard,  and  his 
nephew,  were  assembled. 

"  Very  proud  to  be  my  host's  representative  and  your  guide," 
said  Cleveland.  "Your  visit.  Lord  Doltimore,  is  indeed  an 
agreeable  surprise!  Lord  Vargrave  left  us  an  hour  or  so  since, 
to  call  on  you  at  Admiral  Legard's  ;  we  buy  our  pleasure  with 
his  disappointment." 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate,"  said  the  admiral,  a  bluff,  harsh- 
looking  old  gentleman  ;  "  but  we  were  not  aware,  till  we  saw 
Mr.  Merton,  of  the  honor  Lord  Vargrave  has  done  us.  I 
can't  think  how  we  missed  him  on  the  road." 

"My  dear  uncle,"  said  Colonel  Legard,  in  a  peculiarly  sweet 
and  agreeable  tone  of  voice,  "you  forget ;  we  came  three  miles 
round  by  the  high  road  ;  and  Mr.  Merton  says  that  Lord  Var- 
grave took  the  short  cut  by  Langley  End.  My  uncle,  Mr. 
Cleveland,  never  feels  in  safety  upon  land,  unless  the  road  is  as 
wide  as  the  British  Channel,  and  the  horses  go  before  the  wind 
at  the  rapid  pace  of  two  knots  and  a  half  an  hour  !  " 

**  I  just  wisH  I  had  you  at  sea,  Mr,  Jackanapes,"  said  th^ 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  ll) 

admiral,  looking  grimly  at  his  handsome  nephew,  while  he  shook 
his  cane  at  him. 

The  nephew  smiled  ;  and,  falling  back,  conversed  with  Evelyn. 

The  party  were  now  shown  over  the  house  ;  and  Lord  Dolti- 
more  was  loud  in  its  praises.  It  was  like  a  chateau  he  had 
once  hired  in  Normandy — it  had  a  French  character ;  those 
old  chairs  were  in  excellent  taste — quite  the  style  of  Francis 
the  First. 

"  1  know  no  man  I  respect  more  than  Mr.  Maltravers,"  quoth 
the  admiral.  "Since  he  has  been  amongst  us  this  time,  he 
has  been  a  pattern  to  us  country  gentlemen.  He  would  make 
an  excellent  colleague  for  Sir  John.  We  really  must  get  him  to 
stand  against  that  young  puppy,  who  is  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons  only  because  his  father  is  a  peer,  and  never  votes 
more  than  twice  a  session." 

Mr.  Merton  looked  grave. 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  you  could  persuade  him  to  stay  amongst 
you,"  said  Cleveland.  "  He  has  half  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
part  with  Burleigh  !  " 

"  Part  with  Burleigh  ! "  exclaimed  Evelyn,  turning  abruptly 
from  the  handsome  colonel,  in  whose  conversation  she  had 
hitherto  seemed  absorbed. 

*'  My  very  ejaculation  when  I  heard  him  say  so,  my  dear 
young  lady." 

"  I  wish  he  would,"  said  Lord  Doltimore  hastily,  and  glanc- 
ing towards  Caroline.  "  I  should  much  like  to  buy  it.  What 
do  you  think  would  be  the  purchase-money?" 

"  Don't  talk  so  cold-bloodedly,"  said  the  admiral,  letting  the 
point  of  his  cane  fall  with  great  emphasis  on  the  floor.  "I 
can't  bear  to  see  old  families  deserting  their  old  place — quite 
wicked.  You  buy  Burleigh  !  have  not  you  got  a  country-seat 
of  your  own,  ray  lord  ?  Go  and  live  there,  and  take  Mr.  Mal- 
travers for  your  model — you  could  not  have  a  better." 

Lord  Doltimore  sneered — colored — settled  his  neckcloth — 
and,  turning  round  to  Colonel  Legard,  whispered,  "  Legard, 
your  good  uncle  is  a  bore." 

Legard  looked  a  little  offended,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  But,"  said  Caroline,  coming  to  the  relief  of  her  admirer, 
**  if  Mr.  Maltravers  will  sell  the  place,  surely  he  could  not  have 
a  better  successor." 

"  He  shan't  sell  the  place,  ma'am,  and  that's  poz  !"  cried  the 
admiral.  "The  whole  county  shall  sign  a  round  robin  to  tell 
him  it's  a  shame  ;  and  if  any  one  dares  to  buy  it,  we'll  send 
him  to  Coventry." 


12^  AlIC£  ;    ok,  THE  MVSl-E^iES. 

Miss  Merton  laughed  ;  but  looked  round  the  old  wainscot 
walls  with  unusual  interest  :  she  thought  it  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  be  Lady  of  Burleigh  ! 

*'  And  what  is  that  picture  so  carefully  covered  up  ?  "  said 
the  admiral,  as  they  now  stood  in  the  library. 

"  The  late  Mrs.  Maltravers,  Ernest's  mother,"  replied  Cleve- 
land, slowly.  "  He  dislikes  it  to  be  shown — to  strangers:  the 
other  is  a  Digby." 

Evelyn  looked  towards  the  veiled  portrait,  and  thought  of  her 
first  interview  with  Maltravers  ;  but  the  soft  voice  of  Colonel 
Legard  murmured  in  her  ear,  and  her  revery  was  broken. 

Cleveland  eyed  the  colonel,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "  Var- 
grave  should  keep  a  sharp  lookout." 

They  had  now  finished  theirround  of  the  show-apartments — 
which,  indeed,  had  little  but  their  antiquity  and  old  portraits  to 
recommend  them — and  were  in  a  lobby  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
communicating  with  a  courtyard,  two  sides  of  which  were  occu- 
pied with  the  stables.  The  sight  of  the  stables  reminded  Caroline 
of  the  Arab  horses  ;  andat  the  word  "horses,"  Lord  Doltimore 
seized  Legard's  arm,  and  carried  him  off  to  inspect  the  animals; 
Caroline,  her  father,  and  the  admiral,  followed.  Mr.  Cleveland 
happened  not  to  have  on  his  walking-shoes ;  and  the  flagstones 
in  the  courtyard  looked  damp  ;  and  Mr.  Cleveland,  like  most 
old  bachelors,  was  prudently  afraid  of  cold  ;  so  he  excused  him- 
self, and  stayed  behind.  He  was  talking  to  Evelyn  about  the 
Digbys,  and  full  of  anecdotes  about  Sir  Kenelm,  at  the  moment 
the  rest  departed  so  abruptly  ;  and  Evelyn  was  interested,  so 
she  insisted  on  keeping  him  company.  The  old  gentleman 
was  flattered;  he  thought  it  excellent  breeding  in  Miss  Cameron. 
The  children  ran  out  to  renew  acquaintance  with  the  peacock, 
who,  perched  on  an  old  stirrup-stone,  was  sunning  his  gay 
plumage  in  the  noonday. 

"  It  is  astonishing,"  said  Cleveland,  "  how  certain  family 
features  are  transmitted  from  generation  to  generation  !  Mal- 
travers has  still  the  forehead  and  eyebrows  of  the  Digbys — that 
peculiar,  brooding,  thoughtful  forehead,  which  you  observed 
in  the  picture  of  Sir  Kenelm.  Once,  too,  he  had  much  the 
same  dreaming  character  of  mind,  but  he  has  lost  that,  in  some 
measure  at  least.  He  has  fine  qualities.  Miss  Cameron — I 
have  known  him  since  he  was  born.  I  trust  his  career  is  not 
yet  closed  ;  could  he  but  form  ties  that  would  bind  him  to 
England,  I  should  indulge  in  higher  expectations  than  I  did 
even  when  the  wild   boy  turned  half  the  heads  in   Gottingen ! 

"But  we  were  talking  of  family  portraits — there  is  one  in  the 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  tsg 

entrance  hall,  which  perhaps  you  have  not  observed  ;  it  is  half 
boliterated  by  damp  and  time — yet  it  is  of  a  remarkable  per- 
sonage, connected  with  Maltravers  by  ancestral  intermarriages — 
Lord  Falkland,  the  Falkland  of  Clarendon.  A  man  weak  in 
character,  but  made  most  interesting  by  history.  Utterly  un- 
fitted for  the  severe  ordeal  of  those  stormy  times  ;  sighing  for 
peace  when  his  whole  soul  should  have  been  in  war  ;  and  re- 
pentant alike  whether  with  the  Parliament  or  the  King,  but  still 
a  personage  of  elegant  and  endearing  associations  ;  a  student- 
soldier  with  a  high  heart  and  a  gallant  spirit.  Come  and  look 
at  his  features — -homely  and  worn,  but  with  a  characteristic  air 
of  refinement  and  melancholy  thought."  • 

Thus  going  on  the  agreeable  old  gentleman  drew  Evelyn  into 
the  outer  hall.  Upon  arriving  there,  through  a  small  passage 
which  opened  upon  the  hall,  they  were  surprised  to  find  the  old 
housekeeper  and  another  female  servant  standing  by  a  rude 
kind  of  couch,  on  which  lay  the  form  of  the  poor  woman  de- 
scribed in  the  last  chapter.  Maltravers  and  two  other  men 
were  also  there.  And  Maltravers  himself  was  giving  orders  to 
his  servants,  while  he  leant  over  the  sufferer,  who  was  now  con- 
scious both  of  pain  and  the  service  rendered  to  her.  As  Eve- 
lyn stopped  abruptly  and  insurprise,  opposite  and  almost  at  the 
foot  of  the  homely  litter,  the  woman  raised  herself  up  on  one 
arm,  and  gazed  at  her  with  a  wild  stare  ;  then,  muttering  some 
incoherent  words,  which  appeared  to  betoken  delirium,  she 
sunk  back,  and  was  again  insensible. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Hence  oft  to  win  some  stubborn  maid. 
Still  does  the  wanton  god  assume 
The  martial  air,  the  gay  cockade. 

The  sword,  the  shoulder-knot,  and  plume." — Marriott. 

The  hall  was  cleared,  the  sufferer  had  been  removed,  and 
Maltravers  was  left  alone  with  Cleveland  and  Evelyn. 

He  simply  and  shortly  narrated  the  adventure  of  the  morn- 
ing ;  but  he  did  not  mention  that  Vargrave  had  been  the  cause 
of  the  injury  his  new  guest  had  sustained.  Now  this  event  had 
served  to  make  a  mutual  and  kindred  impression  on  Evelyn  and 
Maltravers.  The  humanity  of  the  latter,  natural  and  common- 
place as  it  was,  was  an  endearing  recollection  to  Evelyn,  pre- 
cisely as  it  showed  that  his  cold  theory  of  disdain  towards  the 


130  Alice;    ok,  the  MvsrtKii.b. 

mass  did  not  affect  his  actual  conduct  towards  individuals. 
On  the  other  hand,  Maltravers  had  perhaps  been  yet  more  im- 
pressed with  the  prompt  and  ingenuous  sympathy  which  Evelyn 
had  testified  towards  the  sufferer  ;  it  had  so  evidently  been  her 
first  gracious  and  womanly  impulse  to  hasten  to  the  side  of  this 
humble  stranger.  In  that  impulse  Maltravers  himself  had  been 
almost  forgotten  ;  and  as  the  poor  woman  lay  pale  and  lifeless, 
and  young  Evelyn  bent  over  her  in  beautiful  compassion,  Mal- 
travers thought  she  had  never  seemed  so  lovely,  so  irresistible — 
in  fact,  pity  in  woman  is  a  great  beautifier. 

As  Maltravers  finished  his  short  tale,  Evelyn's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him  with  such  frank  and  yet  such  soft  approval,  that  the 
look  went  straight  to  his  heart.  He  quickly  turned  away,  and 
abruptly  changed  the  conversation. 

"  But  how  long  have  you  been  here,  Miss  Cameron, — and 
your  companions  ?  " 

"  We  are  again  intruders ;  but  this  time  it  is  not  my  fault." 

"  No,"  said  Cleveland,  "  for  a  wonder  ;  it  was  male,  and  not 
ladylike  curiosity  that  trespassed  on  Bluebeard's  chamber. 
But,  however,  to  soften  your  resentment,  know  that  Miss  Cam- 
eron has  brought  you  a  purchaser  for  Burleigh.  Now,  then,  we 
can  test  the  sincerity  of  your  wish  to  part  with  it.  I  assure  you, 
meanwhile,  that  Miss  Cameron  was  as  much  shocked  at  the 
idea  as  I  was.     Were  you  not  ? " 

"  But  you  surely  have  no  intention  of  selling  Burleigh? "said 
Evelyn  anxiously. 

"  I  fear  I  do  not  know  my  own  mind." 

"  Well,"  said  Cleveland,  "  here  comes  your  tempter.  Lord 
Doltimore,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Maltravers." 

Lord  Doltimore  'oowed. 

"  Been  admiring  your  horses,  Mr.  Maltravers.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  perfect  as  the  black  one  ;  may  I  ask  where  you 
bought  him?" 

"  It  was  a  present  to  me,"  answered  Maltravers. 

"  A  present !  " 

"  Yes,  from  one  who  would  not  have  sold  that  horse  for  a 
king's  ransom  :  an  old  Arab  chief,  with  whom  I  formed  a  kind 
of  friendship  in  the  desert.  A  wound  disabled  him  from  riding, 
and  he  bestowed  the  horse  on  me,  with  as  much  solemn  tender- 
ness for  the  gift  as  if  he  had  given  me  his  daughter  in  mar- 
riage." 

"I  think  of  travelling  into  the  East,"  said  Lord  Doltimore, 
with  much  gravity  ;  **  I  suppose  nothing  will  induce  you  to  sell 
the  black  horse  ?  " 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  t3t 

"Lord  DoUimore  !  "saidMaltravers,  in  a  toneof  lofty  surprise. 

"I  do  not  care  for  the  price,"  continued  the  young  noble- 
man, a  little  disconcerted. 

"  No.  I  never  sell  any  horse  that  has  once  learned  to  know 
me.  I  would  as  soon  think  of  selling  a  friend.  In  the  desert 
one's  horse  is  one's  friend.  I  am  almost  an  Arab  myself  in 
these  matters." 

"But  talking  of  sale  and  barter,  reminds  me  of  Burleigh," 
said  Cleveland,  maliciously.  "  Lord  Doltimore  is  an  universal 
buyer.  He  covets  all  your  goods  :  he  will  take  the  house,  if  he 
can't  have  the  stables." 

"I  only  mean,  said  Lord  Doltimore,  rather  peevishly,  "  that, 
if  you  wish  to  part  with  Burleigh,  I  should  like  to  have  the 
option  of  purchase." 

"  I  will  remember  it — if  I  determine  to  sell  the  place," 
answered  Maltravers,  smiling  gravely;  "at  present  I  am 
undecided." 

He  turned  away  towards  Evelyn  as  he  spoke,  and  almost 
started  to  observe  that  she  was  joined  by  a  stranger,  whose 
approach  he  had  not  before  noticed  ;  and  that  stranger  a  man 
of  such  remarkable  personal  advantages,  that,  had  Maltravers 
been  in  Vargrave's  position,  he  might  reasonably  have  experi- 
enced a  pang  of  jealous  apprehension.  Slightly  above  the 
common  height — slender,  yet,  strongly  formed — set  off  by 
every  advantage  of  dress,  of  air,  of  the  nameless  tone  and 
pervading  refinement  that  sometimes,  though  not  always,  springs 
from  early  and  habitual  intercourse  with  the  most  polished 
female  society — Colonel  Legard,  at  the  age  of  eight-and- 
twenty,  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  beauty  almost  as  popular 
and  as  well  known  as  that  which  men  usually  acquire  by  mental 
qualifications.  Yet  there  was  nothing  effeminate  in  his  coun- 
tenance, the  symmetrical  features  of  which  were  made  masculine 
and  expressive  by  the  rich  olive  of  the  complexion,  and  the 
close  jetty  curls  of  the  Antinous-like  hair. 

They  seemed,  as  they  there  stood — Evelyn  and  Legard — so 
well  suited  to  each  other  in  personal  advantages — their  different 
styles  so  happily  contrasted  ;  and  Legard,  at  the  moment,  was 
regarding  her  with  such  respectful  admiration,  and  whispering 
compliment  to  her  in  so  subdued  a  tone,  that  the  dullest 
observer  might  have  ventured  a  prophecy  by  no  means  agree- 
able to  the  hopes  of  Lumley,  Lord  Vargrave. 

But  a  feeling  or  fear  of  this  nature  was  not  that  which 
occurred  to  Maltravers,  or  dictated  his  startled  exclamation  of 
surprise. 


132  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

Legard  looked  up  as  he  heard  the  exclamation,  and  Saw 
Maltravers,  whose  back  had  hitherto  been  turned  towards  him. 
He  too  was  evidently  surprised,  and  seemingly  confused  ;  the 
color  mounted  to  his  cheek,  and  then  left  it  pale. 

"  Colonel  Legard,"  said  Cleveland,  "  a  thousand  apologies  for 
my  neglect  ;  I  really  did  not  observe  you  enter — you  came 
round  by  the  front  door,  I  suppose.  Let  me  make  you 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Maltravers." 

Legard  bowed  low. 

"  We  have  met  before,"  said  he,  in  embarrassed  accents  :  "at 
Venice,  I  think  !" 

Maltravers  inclined  his  head  rather  stiffly  at  first,  but  then,  as 
if  moved  by  a  second  impulse,  held  out  his  hand  cordially. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ernest,  here  you  are  !"  cried  Sophy,  bounding 
into  the  hall,  followed  by  Mr.  Merton,  the  old  admiral,  Caroline, 
and  Cecilia. 

The  interruption  seemed  welcome  and  opportune.  The 
admiral,  with  blunt  cordiality,  expressed  his  pleasure  at  being 
made  known  to  Mr.  Maltravers. 

The  conversation  grew  general — refreshments  were  proffered 
and  declined — the  visit  drew  to  its  close. 

It  so  happened  that,  as  the  guests  departed,  Evelyn,  from 
whose  side  the  constant  colonel  had  insensibly  melted  away, 
lingered  last, — save,  indeed,  the  admiral,  who  was  discussing 
v/iih  Cleveland  a  new  specific  for  the  gout.  And  as  Maltravers 
stood  on  the  steps,  Evelyn  turned  to  him  with  all  her  beautiful 
naivete oi  mingled  timidity  and  kindness,  and  said: 

"  And  are  we  really  never  to  see  you  again, — never  to  hear 
again  your  tales  of  Egypt  and  Arabia — never  to  talk  over  Tasso 
and  Dante.  No  books — no  talk — no  disputes — no  quarrels  ? 
What  have  we  done  ?  I  thought  we  had  made  it  up — and  yet 
you  are  still  unforgiving.  Give  me  a  good  scold,  and  be 
friends  !  " 

"  Friends  ! — you  have  no  friend  more  anxious,  more  devoted 
than  I  am.  Young,  rich,  fascinating  as  you  are,  you  will  carve 
no  impression  on  human  hearts  deeper  than  that  you  have 
graven  here ! " 

Carried  away  by  the  charm  of  her  childlike  familiarity  and 
enchanting  sweetness,  Maltravers  had  said  more  than  he  in- 
tended ;  yet  his  eyes,  his  emotion,  said  more  than  his  words. 

Evelyn  colored  deeply,  and  her  whole  manner  changed. 
However,  she  turned  away,  and  saying,  with  a  forced  gaiety, 
"  Well,  then,  you  will  not  desert  us — we  shall  see  you  once 
more  ? "  hurried  down  the  steps  to  join  her  companions. 


ALicfe  ;    OR,  THE    kYSTEfelES.  t33 

CHAPTER  V. 

"  See  how  the  Wilful  lover  spreads  his  toils." — Stiixingfleet. 

The  party  had  not  long  returned  to  the  rectory,  and  the  ad- 
miral's carriage  was  ordered,  when  Lord  Vargrave  made  his 
appearance,  Hg  descanted  with  gay  good-humor  on  his  long 
drive — the  bad  roads — and  his  disappointment  at  the  conire- 
teinps  that  awaited  him  ;  then,  drawing  aside  Colonel  Legard, 
who  seemed  unusually  silent  and  abstracted,  he  said  to  him  : 

"  My  dear  Colonel,  my  visit  this  morning  was  rather  to  you 
than  to  Doltimore.  I  confess  that  I  should  like  to  see  your 
abilities  enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  Government ;  and  knowing 
that  the  post  of  Storekeeper  to  the  Ordnance  will  be  vacant  in 

a  day  or  two  by  the  promotion  of  Mr. ,  I  wrote  to  secure 

the  refusal — to-day's  post  brings  me  the  answer.  I  offer  the 
place  to  you  ;  and  I  trust,  before  long,  to  procure  you  also  a 
seat  in  Parliament.  But  you  must  start  for  London  imme- 
diately." 

A  week  ago,  and  Legard's  utmost  ambition  would  have  been 
amply  gratified  by  this  post ;  he  now  hesitated. 

"My  dear  lord,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  say  how  grateful  I  feel 
for  your  kindness  ;  but — but — " 

"  Enough  :  no  thanks,  my  dear  Legard.  Can  you  go  to  town 
to-morrow .? " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Legard,  "  I  fear  not ;  I  must  consult  my 
uncle." 

"  I  can  answer  for  him  ;  I  sounded  him  before  I  wrote — re- 
flect !  You  are  not  rich,  my  dear  Legard  ;  it  is  an  excellent 
opening  :  a  seat  in  Parliament,  too  !  Why,  what  can  be  your 
reason  for  hesitation  ?" 

There  was  something  meaning  and  inquisitive  in  the  tone  of 
voice  in  which  this  question  was  put,  that  brought  the  color  to 
the  colonel's  cheek.  He  knew  not  well  what  to  reply  ;  and  he 
began,  too,  to  think  that  he  ought  not  to  refuse  the  appoint- 
ment. Nay,  v/ould  his  uncle,  on  whom  he  was  dependent,  con- 
sent to  such  a  refusal  ?  Lord  Vargrave  saw  the  irresolution, 
and  proceeded.  He  spent  ten  minutes  in  combating  every 
scruple,  every  objection  ;  he  placed  all  the  advantages  of  the 
post,  real  or  imaginary,  in  every  conceivable  point  of  view  before 
the  colonel's  eyes  ;  he  sought  to  flatter,  to  wheedle,  to  coax,  to 
weary  him  into  accepting  it ;  and  he  at  length  partially 
succeeded.  The  colonel  petitioned  for  three  days'  considera- 
tion, which  Vargrave  reluctantly  acceded  to;  and  Legard  thea 


1 J4  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES, 

Stepped  into  liis  uncle's  carriage,  with  the  air  rather  of  a  martyr 
than  a  maiden  placeman. 

"Aha  !"  said  Vargrave,  chuckling  to  himself  as  he  took  a 
turn  in  the  grounds,  "  I  have  got  rid  of  that  handsome  knave ; 
and  now  I  shall  have  Evelyn  all  to  myself !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  am  forfeited  to  eternal  disgrace  if  you  do  not  commiserate. 
***** 

Go  to,  then,  raise — recover." — Ben  Jonson  :  Poetaster. 

The  next  morning  Admiral  Legard  and  his  nephew  were  con- 
versing in  the  little  cabin  consecrated  by  the  name  of  the 
admiral's  "  own  room." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  veteran,  "  it  would  be  moonshine  and  mad- 
ness not  to  accept  Vargrave's  offer  ;  though  one  can  see  through 
such  a  millstone  as  that  with  half  an  eye.  His  lordship  is  jeal- 
ous of  such  a  fine,  handsome  young  fellow  as  you  are — and  very 
justly.  But  as  long  as  he  is  under  the  same  roof  with  Miss 
Cameron,  you  will  have  no  opportunity  to  pay  your  court  ; 
when  he  goes,  you  can  always  manage  to  be  in  her  neighbor- 
hood ;  and  then,  you  know — puppy  that  you  are — her  business 
will  be  very  soon  settled."  And  the  admiral  eyed  the  handsome 
colonel  with  grim  fondness. 

Legard  sighed, 

"Have  you  any  commands  at ?"  said  he;  "lam  just 

going  to  canter  over  there  before  Doltimore  is  up." 

"  Sad  lazy  dog,  your  friend." 

"  I  shall  be  back  by  twelve." 

"  What  are  you  going  to for  ?  " 

"Brookes,  the  farrier,  has  a  little  spaniel — King  Charles's 
breed.  Miss  Cameron  is  fond  of  dogs.  I  can  send  it  to  her, 
with  my  compliments — it  will  be  a  sort  of  leave-taking." 

"  Sly  rogue  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  !  d — d  sly  ;  ha,  ha! "  and  the  ad- 
miral punched  the  slender  waist  of  his  nephew,  and  laughed  till 
the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Good-bye,  sir." 

"  Stop,  George  ;  I  forgot  to  ask  you  a  question  ;  you  never 
told  me  you  knew  Mr.  Maltravers.  Why  don't  you  cultivate 
his  acquaintance  ?" 

"  We  met  at  Venice  accidentally.  I  did  not  know  his  name 
then,  he  left  just  as  I  arrived.  As  you  say,  I  ought  to  cultivate 
his  acquaintance." 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  I35 

"  Fine  character  !  " 

"  Very  !  "  said  Legard,  with  energy,  as  he  abruptly  quitted 
the  room. 

George  Legard  was  an  orphan.  His  father — the  admiral's 
elder  brother — had  been  a  spendthrift  man  of  fashion,  with 
a  tolerably  large  unentailed  estate.  Remarried  a  duke's  daugh- 
ter without  a  sixpence.  Estates  are  troublesome — Mr.  Legard's 
was  sold.  On  the  purchase-money  the  happy  pair  lived  for 
some  years  In  great  comfort,  when  Mr.  Legard  died  of  a  brain 
fever ;  and  his  disconsolate  widow  found  herself  alone  in  the 
world,  with  a  beautiful  little  curly-headed  boy,  and  an  annuity 
of  one  thousand  a  year,  for  which  her  settlement  had  been  ex- 
changed— all  the  rest  of  the  fortune  was  gone  ;  a  discovery  not 
made  till  Mr.  Legard's  death.  Lady  Louisa  did  not  long  sur- 
vive the  loss  of  her  husband  and  her  station  in  society  ;  her 
income,  of  course,  died  with  herself.  Her  only  child  was 
brought  up  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  the  duke,  till  he 
was  of  age  to  hold  the  office  of  king's  page  ;  thence,  as  is  cus- 
tomary, he  was  promoted  to  a  commission  in  the  Guards.  To 
the  munificent  emoluments  of  his  pay,  the  ducal  family  liberally 
added  an  allowance  of  two  hundred  a-year;  upon  which  income 
Cornet  Legard  contrived  to  get  very  handsomely  in  debt.  The 
extraordinary  beauty  of  his  person,  his  connections,  and  his 
manners,  obtained  him  all  the  celebrity  that  fashion  can  bestow; 
but  poverty  is  a  bad  thing.  Luckily,  at  this  time  his  uncle,  the 
admiral,  returned  from  sea,  to  settle  for  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
England. 

Hitherto  the  admiral  had  taken  no  notice  of  George.  He 
himself  had  married  a  merchant's  daughter  with  a  fair  portion; 
and  had  been  blessed  with  two  children,  who  monopolized  all 
his  affection.  But  there  seemed  some  mortality  in  the  Legard 
family;  in  one  year  after  returning  to  England  and  settling  in 

B shire,  the  admiral  found  himself  wifeless  and  childless. 

He  then  turned  to  his  orphan  nephew,  and  soon  became  fonder 
of  him  than  he  had  ever  been  of  his  own  children.  The  ad- 
miral, though  in  easy  circumstances,  was  not  wealthy ;  never- 
theless, he  advanced  the  money  requisite  for  George's  rise  in 
the  army,  and  doubled  the  allowance  bestowed  by  the  duke. 
His  grace  heard  of  this  generosity, — and  discovered  that  he 
himself  had  a  very  large  family  grown  up  ;  that  the  marquis 
was  going  to  be  married,  and  required  an  increase  of  income  ; 
that  he  had  already  behaved  most  handsomely  to  his  nephew  ; 
and  the  result  of  this  discovery  was,  that  the  duke  withdrew 
the  two  hundred  a  year.     Legard,  however,  who  looked  Qn  bis 


136  ALICK  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTKRIES, 

uncle  as  an  exhaustless  mine,  went  on  breaking  liearts  and 
making  debts — till  one  morning  he  woke  in  the  Bench.  The 
admiral  was  hastily  summoned  to  London.  He  arrived  ;  paid 
off  the  duns — a  kindness  which  seriously  embarrassed  him — 
swore,  scolded,  and  cried ;  and  finally  insisted  that  Legard 
should  give  up  that  d — d  coxcomb  regiment,  in  which  he  was 
now  captain,  retire  on  half-pay,  and  learn  economy  and  a  change 
of  habits  on  the  Continent. 

The  admiral,  a  rough  but  good-natured  man  on  the  whole, 
had  two  or  three  little  peculiarities.  In  the  first  place,  he  piqued 
himself  on  a  sort  of  John  Bull  independence  ;  was  a  bit  of  a 
Radical  (a  strange  anom.aly  in  an  admiral) — which  was  owing, 
perhaps,  to  two  or  three  young  lords  having  been  put  over  his 
head  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  career ;  and  lie  made  it  a  point 
with  his  nephew  (of  whose  affection  he  was  jealous)  to  break 
with  those  fine  grand  connections,  who  plunged  him  into  a  sea 
of  extravagance,  and  then  never  threw  him  a  rope  to  save  him 
from  drowning. 

In  the  second  place,  without  being  stingy,  the  admiral  had  a 
good  deal  of  economy  in  his  disposition.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
allow  his  nephew  to  ruin  him.  He  had  an  extraordinary  old- 
fashioned  horror  of  gambling — a  polite  habit  of  George's; 
and  he  declared,  positively,  that  his  nephew  must,  while  a 
bachelor,  learn  to  live  upon  seven  hundred  a  year.  Thirdly, 
the  admiral  could  be  a  very  stern,  stubborn,  passionate  old 
brute  ;  and  when  he  coolly  told  George,  "Harkye,  you  young 
puppy,  if  you  get  into  debt  again — if  you  exceed  the  very  hand- 
some allowance  I  make  you — I  shall  just  cut  you  off  with  a 
shilling,"  George  was  fully  aware  that  his  uncle  was  one  who 
would  rigidly  keep  his  word. 

However,  it  was  something  to  be  out  of  debt,  and  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  his  age  ;  and  George  Legard,  whose  rank 
in  the  Guards  made  him  a  colonel  in  the  line,  left  England  tol- 
erably contented  with  the  state  of  affairs. 

Despite  the  foibles  of  his  youth,  George  Legard  had  many 
high  and  generous  qualities.  Society  had  done  its  best  to  spoil 
a  fine  and  candid  disposition,  with  abilities  far  above  mediocrity; 
but  society  had  only  partially  succeeded.  Still,  unhappily,  dissi- 
pation had  grown  a  habit  with  him  ;  and  all  his  talents  were  of 
a  nature  that  brought  a  ready  return.  At  his  age,  it  was  but 
natural  that  the  praise  of  salons  should  retain  all  its  sweetness. ' 

In  addition  to  those  qualities  which  please  the  softer  sex, 
Legard  was  a  good  whist-player — superb  at  billiards — famous 
^^S  a  ?hot — unrivalled  as  9.  hprs^man  j  in  fact,  an  ^cQomplish^d 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  1 37 

man,  "  who  did  everything  so  devilish  well  !  "  These  accom- 
plishments did  not  stand  him  in  much  stead  in  Italy  ;  and, 
though  with  reluctance  and  remorse,  he  took  again  to  gambling — 
he  really  had  nothing  else  to  do. 

In  Venice  there  was,  one  year,  established  a  society,  some- 
what on  the  principle  of  the  Salon  at  Paris.  Some  rich  Vene- 
tians belonged  to  it  ;  but  it  was  chiefly  for  the  convenience  of 
foreigners — French,  English,  and  Austrians.  Here  there  was 
select  gaming  in  one  room,  while  another  apartment  served 
the  purposes  of  a  club.  Many  who  never  played  belonged  to 
this  society  ;  but  still  they  were  not  the  habitues. 

Legard  played  :  he  won  at  first — then  he  lost — then  he  won 
again  ;  it  was  a  pleasant  excitement.  One  night,  after  winning 
largely  at  roulette,  he  sat  down  to  play  icarte  \i\\\\  a  Frenchman 
of  high  rank.  Legard  played  well  at  this,  as  at  all  scientific 
games  :  he  thought  he  should  make  a  fortune  out  of  the  French- 
man. The  game  excited  much  interest  ;  the  crowd  gathered 
Tound  the  table  ;  bets  ran  high  ;  the  vanity  of  Legard,  as  well 
as  his  interest,  was  implicated  in  the  conflict.  It  was  soon  evi- 
dent that  the  Frenchman  played  as  well  as  the  Englishman. 
The  stakes,  at  first  tolerably  high,  were  doubled.  Legard  betted 
freely — cards  went  against  him  :  he  lost  much — lost  all  that  he 
had — lost  more  than  he  had — lost  ^veral  hundreds,  which  he 
promised  to  pay  the  next  morning.  The  table  was  broken 
up — the  spectators  separated.  Amongst  the  latter  had  been  one 
Englishman,  introduced  into  the  club  for  the  first  time  that 
night.  He  had  neither  played  nor  betted  ;  but  had  observed 
the  game  with  a  quiet  and  watchful  interest.  The  Englishman 
lodged  at  the  same  hotel  as  Legard.  He  was  at  Venice  only 
for  a  day  ;  the  promised  sight  of  a  file  of  English  newspapers 
had  drawn  him  to  the  club  ;  the  general  excitement  around  had 
attracted  him  to  the  table  :  and,  once  there,  the  spectacle  of 
human  emotions  exercised  its  customary  charm. 

On  ascending  the  stairs  that  conducted  to  his  apartment,  the 
Englishman  heard  a  deep  groan  in  a  room  the  door  of  which  was 
ajar.  He  paused — the  sound  was  repeated  ;  he  gently  pushed 
open  the  door,  and  saw  Legard  standing  by  a  table,  while  a 
glass  on  the  opposite  wall  reflected  his  working  and  convulsed 
countenance,  with  his  hands  trembling  visibly,  as  they  took  a 
brace  of  pistols  from  the  case. 

The  Englishman  recognized  the  loser  at  the  club  ;  and  at 
once  divined  the  act  that  his  madness  or  his  despair  dictated. 
Legard  twice  took  up  one  of  the  pistols,  and  twice  laid  it  down 
irresolute  ;  the  third  time  he  rose  with  ji  start,  raised  the  weapon 


138  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

to  his  head,  and  the  next  moment  it  was  wrenched  from  his 
grasp. 

"  Sit  down,  sir  ! "  said  the  stranger,  in  a  loud  and  command- 
ing voice. 

Legard,  astonished  and  abashed,  sunk  once  more  into  his 
seat,  and  stared  sullenly  and  half-unconsciously  at  his  country- 
man. 

"  You  have  lost  your  money,"  said  the  Englishman,  after 
calmly  replacing  the  pistols  in  their  case,  which  he  locked,  put- 
ting the  key  into  his  pocket  ;  "  and  that  is  misfortune  enough 
for  one  night.  If  you  had  won,  and  ruined  your  opponent,  you 
would  be  excessively  happy,  and  go  to  bed,  thinking  Good 
Luck  (which  is  tlie  representative  of  Providence)  watched  over 
you.  For  my  part,  I  think  you  ought  to  be  very  thankful  that 
you  are  not  the  winner." 

"Sir,"  said  Legard,  recovering  from  his  surprise,  and  begin- 
ning to  feel  resentment  ;  "  I  do  not  understand  this  intrusion  in 
my  apartments.  You  have  saved  me,  it  is  true,  from  death — 
but  life  is  a  worse  curse." 

"  Young  man — no  !  moments  in  life  are  agony,  but  life  itself 
is  a  blessing.  Life  is  a  mystery  that  defies  all  calculation.  You 
can  never  say,  *  To-day  is  wretched,  therefore  to-morrow  must 
be  the  same  ! '  And  for  the  loss  of  a  little  gold  you,  in  the  full 
vigor  of  youth,  with  all  the  future  before  you,  will  dare  to  rush 
into  the  chances  of  eternity  !  You,  who  have  never,  perhaps, 
thought  what  eternity  is  !  Yet,"  added  the  stranger,  in  a  soft 
and  melancholy  voice,  "you  are  young  and  beautiful — perhaps 
the  pride  and  hope  of  others  !  Have  you  no  tie — no  affection — 
no  kindred?  are  you  lord  of  yourself?" 

Legard  was  moved  by  the  tone  of  the  stranger,  as  well  as  by 
the  words. 

"  It  is  not  the  loss  of  money,"  said  he,  gloomily,  "it  is  the 
loss  of  honor.  To-morrow  I  must  go  forth  a  shunned  and  de- 
spised man — I,  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier  !  They  may  insult 
me — and  I  have  no  reply  !  " 

The  Englishman  seemed  to  muse,  for  his  brow  lowered,  and 
he  made  no  answer.  Legard  threw  himself  back,  overcome  with 
his  own  excitement,  and  wept  like  a  child.  The  stranger,  who 
imagined  himself  above  the  indulgence  of  emotion  (vain  man  !), 
woke  from  his  revery  at  this  burst  of  passion.  He  gazed  at  first 
(I  grieve  to  write)  with  a  curl  of  the  haughty  lip  that  had  in  it 
contempt  ;  but  it  passed  quickly  away  ;  and  the  hard  man  re- 
membered that  he  too  had  been  young  and  weak,  and  his  own 
errors  greater  perhaps  than  those  of  the  one  he  had  ventured  to 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  I39 

despise.  He  walked  to  and  fro  the  room  still  without  speaking. 
At  last  he  approached  the  gamester,  and  took  his  hand. 

"  What  is  your  debt  ? "  he  asked  gently. 

"  What  matters  it  ? — more  than  I  can  pay." 

"If  life  is  a  trust,  so  is  wealth  :  you  have  the  first  in  charge 
for  others — /  may  have  the  last.     What  is  the  debt  ?  " 

Legard  started — it  was  a  strong  struggle  between  shame  and 
hope.  "  If  I  could  borrow  it,  I  could  repay  it  hereafter — I 
know  I  could — I  would  not  think  of  it  otherwise." 

"  Very  well,  so  be  it — I  will  lend  you  the  money,  on  one  con- 
dition. Solemnly  promise  me,  on  your  faith  as  a  soldier  and  a 
gentleman,  that  you  will  not,  for  ten  years  to  come — even  if 
you  grow  rich,  and  can  ruin  others — touch  card  or  dice-box. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  shun  all  gaming  for  gain,  under  what- 
ever disguise — whatever  appellation.  I  will  take  your  word  as 
my  bond." 

Legard,  overjoyed,  and  scarcely  trusting  his  senses,  gave  the 
promise. 

"  Sleep,  then,  to-night,  in  hope  and  assurance  of  the  morrow," 
said  the  Englishman  :  "  let  this  event  be  an  omen  to  you,  that 
while  there  is  a  future  there  is  no  despair.  One  word  more — I 
do  not  want  your  thanks  ;  it  is  easy  to  be  generous  at  the  ex- 
pense of  justice.  Perhaps  I  have  been  so  now.  This  sum, 
which  is  to  save  your  life — a  life  you  so  little  value — might  have 
blessed  fifty  human  beings — better  men  than  either  the  giver  or 
receiver.  What  is  given  to  error,  may  perhaps  be  a  wrong  to 
virtue.  When  you  would  ask  others  to  support  a  career  of  blind 
and  selfish  extravagance,  pause  and  think  over  the  breadless 
lips  this  wasted  gold  would  have  fed  ! — the  joyless  hearts  it 
would  have  comforted  !  You  talk  of  repaying  me  :  if  the  occa- 
sion offer  do  so  ;  if  not — if  we  never  meet  again,  and  you  have 
it  in  your  power,  pay  it  for  me  to  the  poor  !     And  now,  farewell." 

"  Stay — give  me  the  name  of  my  preserver  !     Mine  is — " 

"Hush!  what  matter  names  ?  This  is  a  sacrifice  we  have  both 
made  to  honor.  You  will  sooner  recover  your  self-esteem  (and 
without  self-esteem  there  is  neither  faith  nor  honor),  when  you 
think  that  your  family,  your  connections,  are  spared  all  associ- 
ation with  your  own  error  ;  that  I  may  hear  them  spoken  of — 
that  I  may  mix  with  them  without  fancying  that  they  owe  me 
gratitude." 

"Your  own  name,  then  ?"  said  Legard,  deeply  penetrated 
with  the  delicate  generosity  of  his  benefactor. 

"  Tush  !  "  muttered  th€  stranger  impatiently,  as  he  closed 
the  door. 


146  ALICE  j    OR,  THE   MYStERtfiS. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  woke,  Legard  saw  upon  the  table 
a  small  packet — it  contained  a  sum  that  exceeded  the  debt 
named.     On  the  envelope  was  written,  "Remember  the  bond." 

The  stranger  had  already  quitted  Venice.  He  had  not  trav- 
elled through  the  Italian  cities  under  his  own  name,  for  he  had 
just  returned  from  the  solitudes  of  the  East,  and  not  yet  hard- 
ened to  the  publicity  of  the  gossip  which  in  towns  haunted  by 
liis  countrymen  attended  a  well-known  name  :  that  given  to 
Legard  by  the  innkeeper,  mutilated  by  Italian  pronunciation, 
the  young  man  had  never  heard  before,  and  soon  forgot.  He 
paid  his  debts,  and  he  scrupulously  kept  his  v.'ord.  The  ad- 
venture of  that  night  went  far,  indeed,  to  reform  and  ennoble 
the  mind  and  habits  of  George  Legard.  Time  passed,  and  he 
never  met  his  benefactor,  till  in  the  halls  of  Burleigh  he  recog- 
nized the  stranger  in  Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

*'  Why  value,  then,  that  strength  of  mind  they  boast, 
As  often  varying,  and  as  often  lost  ?" 

Hawkins  Browne  {translated  by  Soame  Jenyns). 

Maltravers  was  lying  at  length,  with  his  dogs  around  him, 
under  a  beech-tree  that  threw  its  arms  over  one  of  the  calm, 
still  pieces  of  water  that  relieved  the  groves  of  Burleigh,  when 
Colonel  Legard  spied  him  from  the  bridle-road  which  led  through 
the  park  to  the  house.  The  colonel  dismounted,  threw  therein 
over  his  arm  ;  and  at  the  sound  of  the  hoofs  Maltravers  turned, 
saw  the  visitor,  and  rose ;  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Legard,  and 
immediately  began  talking  of  indifferent  matters. 

Legard  was  embarrassed,  but  his  nature  was  not  one  to  profit 
by  the  silence  of  a  benefactor.  "Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  he,  with 
graceful  emotion,  "though  you  have  not  yet  allowed  me  an 
opportunity  to  allude  to  it,  do  not  think  I  am  ungrateful  for 
the  service  you  rendered  me." 

Maltravers  looked  grave,  but  made  no  reply.  Legard  resumed, 
with  a  heightened  color: 

"I  cannot  say  how  I  regret  that  it  is  not  yet  in  my  power  to 
discharge  my  debt ;  but — " 

"  When  it  is,  you  will  do  so.  Pray  think  no  more  of  it.  Are 
you  going  to  the  rectory?" 

"No,  not  this  morning;  in  fact,  I  leave  B shire  to-morrow. 

Pleasant  family,  the  Mertons." 

"And  Miss  Cameron — ?" 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  141 

"Is  certainly  beautiful — and  very  rich.  How  could  she  ever 
think  of  marrying  Lord  Vargrave — so  much  older  ! — she  who 
could  have  so  many  admirers  !  " 

"Not,  surely,  while  betrothed  to  another?" 

This  was  a  refinement  which  Legard,  though  an  honorable 
man  as  men  go,  did  not  quite  understand.  "Oh,"  said  he, 
"that  was  by  some  eccentric  old  relation — her  father-in-law,  I 
think.     Do  you  think  she  is  bound  by  such  an  engagement?" 

Maltravers  made  no  reply,  but  amused  himself  by  throwing  a 
stick  into  the  water,  and  sending  one  of  his  dogs  after  it. 

l.egard  looked  on,  and  his  affectionate  disposition  yearned  to 
make  advances  which  something  distant  in  the  manner  of  Mal- 
travers chilled  and  repelled. 

When  Legard  was  gone,  Maltravers  followed  him  with  his 
eyes.  "And  this  is  the  man  whom  Cleveland  thinks  Evelyn 
could  love  !  I  could  forgive  her  marrying  Vargrave.  Inde- 
pendently of  the  conscientious  feeling  that  may  belong  to  the 
engagement,  Vargrave  has  wit,  talent,  intellect ;  and  this  man 
has  nothing  but  the  skin  of  the  panther.  Was  I  wrong  to  save 
him  ?  No.  Every  human  life,  I  suppose,  has  its  uses.  But 
Evelyn — I  could  despise  her,  if  her  heart  was  the  fool  of  the 
eye  !" 

These  comments  were  most  unjust  to  Legard  ;  but  they  were 
just  of  that  kind  of  injustice  which  the  man  of  talent  often 
commits  against  the  man  of  external  advantages,  and  which 
the  latter  still  more  often  retaliates  on  the  man  of  talent.  As 
Maltravers  thus  soliloquized,  he  was  accosted  by  Mr.  Cleveland. 

"('ome,  Ernest,  you  must  not  cut  these  unfortunate  Mertons 
any  longer.  If  you  continue  to  do  so,  do  you  know  what  Mrs. 
Hare  and  the  world  will  say?" 

"No.— What?" 

"That  you  have  been  refused  by  Miss  Merton." 

"That  would  hQ  a  calumny  !"  said  Ernest,  smiling. 

"Or  that  you  are  hoj)clessly  in  love  with  Miss  Cameron." 

Maltravers  started — his  proud  heart  swelled — he  pulled  his 
hat  over  his  brows,  and  said,  after  a  short  pause  : 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hare  and  the  world  must  not  have  it  all  their 
own  way ;  and  so,  whenever  you  go  to  the  rectory,  take  me 
with  you.  ' 


t42  ALICE;     OR,   THE    MYSTERIES, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


«        *        »         «•  Tjig  more  he  strove 

To  advance  his  suit,  the  farther  from  her  love." 

Dryden  :    Theodore  and  Honoria. 

The  line  of  conduct  which  Vargrave  now  adopted  with  regard 
to  Evelyn  was  craftily  conceived  and  carefully  pursued.  He 
did  not  hazard  a  single  syllable  which  might  draw  on  him  a  re- 
jection of  his  claims ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  no  lover  could  be 
more  constant,  more  devoted,  in  attentions.  In  the  presence 
of  others  there  was  an  air  of  familiar  intimacy,  that  seemed  to 
arrogate  a  right,  which  to  her  he  scrupulously  shunned  to  assert. 
Nothing  could  be  more  respectful,  nay  more  timid,  than  his  lan- 
guage, or  more  calmly  confident  than  his  manner.  Not  having 
much  vanity,  nor  any  very  acute  self-conceit,  he  did  not  delude 
himself  into  the  idea  of  winning  Evelyn's  affections ;  he  rather 
sought  to  entangle  her  judgment — to  weave  around  her  web 
upon  web — not  the  less  dangerous  for  being  invisible.  He  took 
the  compact  as  a  matter  of  course — as  something  not  to  be 
broken  by  any  possible  chance ;  her  hand  was  to  be  his  as  a 
right ;  it  was  her  heart  that  he  so  anxiously  sought  to  gain  !  But 
this  distinction  was  so  delicately  drawn,  and  insisted  upon  so 
little  in  any  tangible  form,  that,  whatever  Evelyn's  wishes  for  an 
understanding,  a  much  more  experienced  woman  would  have 
been  at  a  loss  to  ripen  one. 

Evelyn  longed  to  confide  in  Caroline — to  consult  her.  But 
Caroline,  though  still  kind,  had  grown  distant.  "  I  wish,"  said 
Evelyn,  one  night  as  she  sate  in  Caroline's  dressing-room — "  I 
wish  that  I  knew  what  tone  to  take  with  Lord  Vargrave.  I  feel 
more  and  more  convinced  that  an  union  between  us  is  impossi- 
ble ;  and  yet,  precisely  because  he  does  not  press  it,  am  I  un- 
able to  tell  him  so.  I  wish  you  could  undertake  that  task  ;  you 
seem  such  friends  with  him." 

"  I !  "  said  Caroline,  changing  countenance. 

"Yes,  you  !  Nay,  do  not  blush  or  I  shall  think  you  envy  me. 
Could  you  not  save  us  both  from  the  pain  that  otherwise  must 
come,  sooner  or  later  ?" 

"  Lord  Vargrave  would  not  thank  me  for  such  an  act  of  friend- 
ship. Besides,  Evelyn,  consider — it  is  scarcely  possible  to  break 
off  this  engagement  noiv." 

"  Now!  and  why  now  !  "  said  Evelyn,  astonished. 

"The  world  believes  it  so  imj)licitly — observe  whoever  sits 
next  you  rises  if  Lord  Vargrave  approaches  ;  the  neighborhood 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  ^43 

talk  of  nothing  else  but  your  marriage  ;  and  your  fate,  Evelyn, 
is  not  to  be  pitied." 

"  I  will  leave  this  place — I  will  go  back  to  the  cottage — I  can- 
not bear  this!  "  said  Evelyn,  passionately  wringing  Iier hands. 

"  You  do  not  love  another,  I  am  sure  ;  not  young  Mr.  Hare, 
with  his  green  coat  and  straw-colored  whiskers  ;  nor  Sir  Henry 
Foxglove,  with  his  how-d'ye-do  like  a  view-hallo  ;  perhaps,  in- 
deed, Colonel  Legard — he  is  handsome.  What !  do  you  blush 
at  his  name?     No;  you  say  'not  Legard';  who  else  is  there?" 

''You  are  cruel — you  trifle  with  me  !  "  said  Evelyn,  in  tear- 
ful reproach  ;  and  she  rose  to  go  to  her  own  room. 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  said  Caroline,  touched  by  her  evident  pain; 
"learn  from  me — if  I  may  say  so — that  marriages  are  not  made 
in  heaven  ;  yours  will  be  as  fortunate  as  earth  can  bestow,  A 
love-match  is  usually  the  least  happy  of  all.  Our  foolish  sex 
demands  so  much  in  love ;  and  love,  after  all,  is  but  one  bless- 
ing among  many.  Wealth  and  rank  remain  when  love  is  but  a 
heap  of  ashes.  For  my  part,  I  have  chosen  my  destiny  and  ray 
husband." 

"  Your  husband  !  " 

"  Yes  !  you  see  him  in  Lord  Doltimore.  I  dare  say  we  shall 
be  as  happy  as  any  amorous  Corydon  and  Phillis."  But  there 
was  irony  in  Caroline's  voice  as  she  spoke  ;  and  she  sighed 
heavily.  Evelyn  did  not  believe  her  serious ;  and  the  friends 
parted  for  the  night. 

"  Mine  is  a  strange  fate  ! "  said  Caroline  to  herself ;  "  I  am 
asked  by  the  man  whom  I  love,  and  who  professes  to  love  me, 
to  bestow  myself  on  another,  and  to  plead  for  him  to  a  younger 
and  fairer  bride.  Well,  I  will  obey  him  in  the  first ;  the  last  is 
a  bitterer  task,  and  I  cannot  perform  it  earnestly.  Yet  Vargrave 
has  a  strange  power  over  me  ;  and  when  I  look  round  the  world, 
I  see  that  he  is  right.  In  these  most  commonplace  artifices, 
there  is  yet  a  wild  majesty  that  charms  and  fascinates  me.  It 
is  something  to  rule  the  world :  and  his  and  mine  are  natures 
formed  to  do  so." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  A  smoke  raised  with  the  fume  of  sighs." 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

It  is  certain  that  Evelyn  experienced  for  Maltravers  senti- 
ments which,  if  not  love,  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  it.  But 
whether  it  were  that  master-passion,  or  merely  its  fanciful  re« 


144  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

semblance, — love,  in  early  youth  and  innocent  natures,  if  ot 
sudden  growth,  is  long  before  it  makes  itself  apparent.  Evelyn 
had  been  prepared  to  feel  an  interest  in  her  solitary  neighbor. 
His  mind,  as  developed  in  his  works,  had  half  formed  her  own. 
Her  childish  adventure  with  the  stranger  had  never  been  for- 
gotten. Her  present  knowledge  of  Maltravers  was  an  union  ef 
dangerous  and  often  opposite  associations — the  Ideal  and  the 
Real. 

Love,  in  its  first  dim  and  imperfect  shape,  is  but  imagination 
concentrated  on  one  object.  It  is  a  genius  of  the  heart,  re- 
sembling that  of  the  intellect ;  it  appeals  to,  it  stirs  up,  it  evokes 
the  sentiments  and  sympathies  that  lie  most  latent  in  our  nature. 
Its  sigh  is  the  spirit  that  moves  over  the  ocean,  and  arouses  the 
Anadyomene  into  life.  Therefore  is  it  that  mind  produces 
affections  deeper  than  those  of  external  form  ;  therefore  it  is 
that  women  are  worshippers  of  glory,  which  is  the  palpable  and 
visible  representative  of  a  genius  whose  operations  they  cannot 
always  comprehend.  Genius  has  so  much  in  common  with 
love — the  imagination  that  animates  one  is  so  much  the  property 
of  the  other — that  there  is  not  a  surer  sign  of  the  existence  of 
genius  than  the  love  that  it  creates  and  bequeaths.  It  penetrates 
deeper  than  the  reason — it  binds  a  nobler  captive  than  the 
fancy.  As  the  sun  upon  the  dial,  it  gives  to  the  human  heart 
both  its  shadow  and  its  light.  Nations  are  worshippers  and 
wooers  ;  and  Posterity  learns  from  its  oracles  to  dream,  to  aspire, 
to  adore  ! 

Had  Maltravers  declared  the  passion  that  consumed  him,  it 
is  probable  that  it  would  soon  have  kindled  a  return.  But  his 
frequent  absence,  his  sustained  distance  of  manner,  had  served 
to  repress  the  feelings  that  in  a  young  and  virgin  heart  rarely 
flow  with  much  force,  until  they  are  invited  and  aroused.  Le 
besoin  d'aimer  in  girls  is,  perhaps,  in  itself  powerful  ;  but  it  is 
fed  by  another  want,/.?  besoin  d'itre  aimec !  //,  therefore, 
Evelyn  at  present  felt  love  for  Maltravers,  the  love  had  cer- 
tainly not  passed  into  the  core  of  life :  the  tree  had  not  so  far 
struck  its  roots  but  what  it  might  have  borne  transplanting. 
There  was  in  her  enough  of  the  pride  of  sex  to  have  recoiled 
from  the  thougKt  of  giving  love  to  one  who  had  not  asked  the 
treasure.  Capable  of  attachment,  more  trustful,  and  therefore, 
if  less  vehement,  more  beautiful  and  durable  than  that  which 
had  animated  the  brief  tragedy  of  Florence  Lascelles,  she  could 
not  have  been  the  unknown  correspondent,  or  revealed  the 
soul,  because  the  features  wore  a  mask. 

It  might  also  be  allowed  that,  in  some  respects,  Evelyn  was 


Alice  ;   or,  the  mysteries,  145 

too  young  and  inexperienced  thoroughly  to  appreciate  all  that 
was  most  truly  lovable  and  attractive  in  Maltravers.  At  four- 
and-twenty  she  would,  perhaps,  have  felt  no  fear  mingled  with 
her  respect  for  him  ;  but  seventeen  and  six-and-thirty  is  a  wide 
interval !  She  never  felt  that  there  was  that  difference  in  years 
until  she  had  met  Legard,  and  then  at  once  she  comprehended 
it.  With  Legard  she-  had  moved  on  equal  terms  :  he  was  not 
too  wise — too  high  for  her  every-day  thoughts.  He  less  ex- 
cited her  imagination — less  attracted  her  reverence.  But,  some- 
how or  other,  that  voice  which  proclaimed  her  power,  those 
eyes  which  never  turned  from  hers,  went  nearer  to  her  heart. 
As  Evelyn  had  once  said  to  Caroline, "  It  was  a  great  enigma!" — 
her  own  feelings  were  a  mystery  to  her  ;  and  she  reclined  by 
the  "Golden  Waterfalls  "  without  tracing  her  likeness  in  the 
glass  of  the  pool  below. 

Maltravers  appeared  again  at  the  rectory.  He  joined  their 
parties  by  day,  and  his  evenings  were  spent  with  them  as  of  old. 
In  this  I  know  not  precisely  what  were  his  motives — perhaps  he 
did  not  know  them  himself.  It  might  be  that  his  pride  was 
roused  ; — it  might  be  that  he  could  not  endure  the  notion  that 
Lord  Vargrave  should  guess  his  secret,  by  an  absence  almost 
otherwise  unaccountable  ;  he  could  not  patiently  bear  to  give 
Vargrave  that  triumph  ; — it  might  be  that,  in  the  sternness  of 
his  self-esteem,  he  imagined  he  had  already  conquered  all  save 
affectionate  interest  in  Evelyn's  fate,  and  trusted  too  vainly  to 
his  own  strength  ; — and  it  might  be,  also,  that  he  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  seeing  if  Evelyn  were  contented  with  her 
lot,  and  if  Vargrave  were  worthy  of  the  blessing  that  awaited 
him.  Whether  one  of  these,  or  all  united,  made  him  resolve  to 
brave  his  danger — or  whether,  after  all,  he  yielded  to  a  weakness, 
or  consented  to  what — invited  by  Evelyn  herself — was  almost 
a  social  necessity,  the  reader,  and  not  the  narrator,  shall  decide. 

Legard  was  gone  ;  but  Doltimore  remained  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, having  hired  a  hunting-box  not  far  from  Sir  John  Mer- 
ton's  manors,  over  which  he  easily  obtained  permission  to  sport. 
When  he  did  not  dine  elsewhere,  there  was  always  a  place  for 
him  at  the  parson's  hospitable  board — and  that  place  was  gen- 
erally next  to  Caroline.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton  had  given  up 
all  hope  of  Mr.  Maltravers  for  their  eldest  daughter  ;  and, 
very  strangely,  this  conviction  came  upon  their  minds  on  the 
first  day  they  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  young  lord. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  rector,  as  he  was  winding  up  his  watch, 
preparatory  to  entering  the  connubial  couch — "my  dear,  I  don't 
think  Mr,  Maltravers  is  a  marrying  man." 


146  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"I  was  just  going  to  make  the  same  remark,"  said  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton,  drawing  the  clothes  over  her.  "  Lord  Doltimore  is  a  very 
fine  young  man — his  estates  unencumbered.  I  like  him  vastly, 
my  love.  He  is  evidently  smitten  with  Caroline  :  so  Lord  Var- 
grave  and  Mrs.  Hare  said." 

"  Sensible,  shrewd  woman,  Mrs.  Hare.  By  the  by,  we'll  send 
her  a  pineapple.     Caroline  was  made  to  be  a  woman  of  rank  !  " 

"  Quite  ;  so  much  self-possession  !  " 

"  And  if  Mr.  Maltravers  would  sell  or  let  Burleigh  I — " 

"  It  would  be  so  pleasant !  " 

"  Had  you  not  better  give  Caroline  a  hint?" 

"  My  love,  she  is  so  sensible,  let  her  go  her  own  way." 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear  Betsy ;  I  shall  always  say  that  no 
one  has  more  commonsense  than  you  ;  you  have  brought  up 
your  children  admirably  !  " 

"Dear  Charles  !  " 

"  It  is  coldish  to-night,  love,"  said  the  rector ;  and  he  put  out 
the  candle. 

From  that  time,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton 
if  Lord  Doltimore  did  not  find  their  house  the  pleasantest  in 
the  county. 

One  evening  the  rectory  party  were  assembled  together  in 
the  cheerful  drawing-room.  Cleveland,  Mr.  Merton,  Sir  John — 
and  Lord  Vargrave  reluctantly  compelled  to  make  up  the 
fourth — were  at  the  whist-table ;  Evelyn,  Caroline,  and  Lord 
Doltimore  were  seated  round  the  fire,  and  Mrs.  Merton  was 
working  a  footstool.  The  fire  burned  clear — the  curtains  were 
down — the  children  in  bed  :  it  was  a  family  picture  of  elegant 
comfort. 

Mr.  Maltravers  was  announced. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  come  at  last,"  said  Caroline,  holding  out 
her  fair  hand.  "Mr.  Cleveland  could  not  answer  for  you.  We 
are  all  disputing  as  to  which  mode  of  life  is  the  happiest." 

"And  your  opinion?"  asked  Maltravers,  seating  himself  in 
the  vacant  chair — it  chanced  to  be  next  to  Evelyn's. 

"My opinion  is  decidedly  in  favor  ©f  London.  A  metropoli- 
tan life,  with  its  perpetual  and  graceful  excitements, — the  best 
music — the  best  companions — the  best  things,  in  short.  Pro- 
vincial life  is  so  dull,  its  pleasures  so  tiresome;  to  talk  overthe 
last  year's  news,  and  wear  out  one's  last  year's  dresses:  culti- 
vate a  conservatory,  and  play  Pope  Joan  with  a  young  party. 
Dreadful ! " 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Merton,"  said  Lord  Doltimore  solemnly ; 
**  not  but  what  I  like  the  country  for  three  or  four  months  in 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I47 

the  year,  with  good  shooting  and  hunting,  and  a  large  house 
properly  filled — independent  of  one's  own  neighborhood  :  but 
if  I  am  condemned  to  choose  one  place  to  live  in,  give  me 
Paris." 

"Ah!  Paris;  I  never  was  in  Paris.  I  should  so  like  to 
travel !  **  said  Caroline. 

"  But  the  inns  abroad  are  so  very  bad,"  said  Lord  Doltimore  ; 
"how  people  can  rave  about  Italy,  I  can't  think.  I  never 
suffered  so  much  in  my  life  as  I  did  in  Calabria;  and  at  Venice 
I  was  bit  to  death  by  mosquitoes.  Nothing  like  Paris,  I  assure 
you  :  don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Maltravers?" 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  answer  you  better  in  a  short 
time.     I  think  of  accompanying  Mr.  Cleveland  to  Paris." 

"Indeed!"  said  Caroline.  "Well,  I  envy  you;  but  it  is  a 
sudden  resolution?" 

"Not  very." 

"  Do  you  stay  long  ?"  asked  Lord  Doltimore. 

"  My  stay  is  uncertain." 

"And  you  won't  let  Burleigh  in  the  meanwhile?" 

''^ Let  Burleigh?  No;  if  it  once  pass  from  my  hands  it  will 
be  for  ever !  " 

Maltravers  spoke  gravely,  and  the  subject  was  changed. 
Lord  Doltimore  challenged  Caroline  to  chess. 

They  sate  down,  and  Lord  Doltimore  arranged  the  pieces. 

"Sensible  man,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the  young  lord;  "but 
I  don't  hit  it  off  with  him  :  Vargrave  is  more  agreeable.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"Y-e-s." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  is  very  kind  to  me  ;  I  never  remember  any 
one  being  more  so, — got  Legard  that  appointment  solely 
because  it  would  please  me — very  friendly  fellow  !  I  mean  to 
put  myself  under  his  wing  next  session  !" 

"You  could  not  do  better,  I'm  sure,"  said  Caroline;  "he  is 
so  much  looked  up  to — I  dare  say  he  will  be  prime  minister 
one  of  these  days." 

"I  take  the  bishop: — do  you  think  so  really? — you  are  rather 
a  politician  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  not  much  of  that.  But  my  father  and  my  uncle 
are  staunch  politicians  ;  gentlemen  know  so  much  more  than 
ladies.  We  should  always  go  by  their  opinions.  I  think  I  will 
take  the  queen's  pawn — your  politics  are  the  same  as  Lord 
Vargrave's?" 

"  Yes,  I  fancy  so :  at  least  I  shall  leave  my  proxy  with  him. 
Glad  you  don't  like  politics — great  bore," 


148  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"Why,  SO  young,  so  connected  as  you  are — "  Caroline  stopped 
short,  and  made  a  wrong  move. 

"  I  wish  we  were  going  to  Paris  together,  we  should  enjoy  it 
so," — and  Lord  Doltimore's  knight  checked  the  tower  and 
queen. 

Caroline  coughed,  and  stretched  her  hand  quickly  to  move. 

"  Pardon  me,  you  will  lose  the  game  if  you  do  so ! "  and 
Doltimore  placed  his  hand  on  hers — their  eyes  met — Caroline 
turned  away,  and  Lord  Doltimore  settled  his  right  collar. 

"And  is  it  true?  are  you  really  going  to  leave  us?"  said 
Evelyn, — and  she  felt  very  sad.  But  still  the  sadness  might 
not  be  that  of  love ;  she  had  felt  sad  after  Legard  had  gone. 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall  long  stay  away,"  said  Maltravers, 
trying  to  speak  indifferently.  "Burleigh  has  become  more  dear 
to  me  than  it  was  in  earlier  youth  ;  perhaps,  because  I  have 
made  myself  duties  there :  and  in  other  places  I  am  but  an 
isolated  and  useless  unit  in  the  great  mass." 

"You! — everywhere  you  must  have  occupations  and  re- 
sources— everywhere  you  must  find  yourself  not  alone.  But 
you  will  not  go  yet?" 

"Not  yet:  no.  (Evelyn's  spirits  rose.)  Have  you  read  the 
book  I  sent  you?"  (It  was  one  of  De  Stael's.) 

"Yes  ;  but  it  disappoints  me," 

"And  why?  it  is  eloquent?" 

"But  is  it  true?  is  there  so  much  melancholy  in  life?  are  the 
affections  so  full  of  bitterness?  For  me,  I  am  so  happy  when 
with  those  I  love !  When  I  am  with  my  mother,  the  air  seems 
more  fragrant — the  skies  more  blue :  it  is  surely  not  affection, 
but  the  absence  of  it,  that  makes  us  melancholy?" 

"Perhaps  so  ;  but  if  we  had  never  known  affection, we  might 
not  miss  it :  and  the  brilliant  Frenchwoman  speaks  from  mem- 
ory, while  you  speak  from  hope — Memory,  which  is  the  ghost 
of  joy :  yet  surely,  even  in  the  indulgence  of  affection,  there  is 
at  times  a  certain  melancholy — a  certain  fear.  Have  you  never 
felt  it,  even  with — with  your  mother?" 

"Ah,  yes!  when  she  suffered,  or  when  I  have  thought  she 
loved  me  less  than  I  desired." 

"That  must  have  been  an  idle  and  vain  thought.  Your 
mother !  does  she  resemble  you  ? " 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  Oh,  if  you  knew  her !  I  have 
longed  so  often  that  you  were  acquainted  with  each  other!  It 
was  she  who  taught  me  to  sing  your  songs." 

"  My  dear  Mrs,  Hare,  we  may  as  well  throw  up  our  cards," 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  149 

said  the  keen,  clear  voice  of  Lord  Vargrave  :  "you  have  played 
most  admirably,  and  I  know  that  your  last  card  will  be  the  ace 
of  trumps  ;  still  the  luck  is  against  us." 

"  No,  no  ;  pray  play  it  out,  my  lord." 

"Quite  useless,  ma'am,"  said  Sir  John,  showing  two  honors. 
"  We  have  only  the  trick  to  make." 

"Quite  useless,"  echoed  Lumley,  tossing  down  his  sovereigns, 
and  rising  with  a  careless  yawn. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Maltravers?" 

Maltravers  rose  and  Vargrave  turned  to  Evelyn,  and  addressed 
her  in  a  whisper.  The  proud  Maltravers  walked  away,  and 
suppressed  a  sigh  ;  a  moment  more,  and  he  saw  Lord  Vargrave 
occupying  the  chair  he  had  left  vacant.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
Cleveland's  shoulder. 

"The  carriage  is  waiting — are  you  ready  ?" 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Obscuris  vera  involvens. "  * — Virgil. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter,  Evelyn  and 
Caroline  were  riding  out  with  Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr.  Merton, 
and  on  returning  home  they  passed  theugh  the  village  of  Bur- 
leigh. 

"Maltravers,  I  suppose,  has  an  eye  to  the  county,  one  of 
these  days,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  who  honestly  fancied  that  a 
man's  eyes  were  always  directed  towards  something  for  his  own 
interest  or  advancement ;  "  otherwise  he  could  not  surely  take 
all  this  trouble  about  workhouses  and  paupers.  Who  could 
ever  have  imagined  my  romantic  friend  would  sink  into  a 
country  squire  ?" 

"  It  is  astonishing  what  talent  and  energy  he  throws  into  every 
thing  he  attempts,"  said  the  parson.  "One  could  not,  indeed, 
have  supposed  that  a  man  of  genius  could  make  a  man  of 
business." 

"  Flattering  to  your  humble  servant — whom  all  the  world 
allow  to  be  the  last,  and  deny  to  be  the  first.  But  your  remark 
shows  what  a  sad  possession  genius  is :  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
you  fancy  that  it  cannot  be  of  the  least  possible  use.  If  a  man 
is  called  a  genius,  it  means  that  he  is  to  be  thrust  out  of  all  the 
good  things  in  this  life.  He  is  not  fit  for  anything  but  a  garret  ! 
Pi|t  fi  genius  into  office  ! — make  a  genius  a  bishop !  or  a  lord 
*  Wrapping  truth  i«  obscurjtyi 


150  Alice;   or,  the  mysteries. 

chancellor  ? — the  world  would  be  turned  topsyturvy  !  You  see 
that  you  are  quite  astonished  that  a  genius  can  be  even  a  county 
magistrate,  and  know  the  difference  between  a  spade  and  a 
poker !  In  fact,  a  genius  is  supposed  to  be  the  most  ignorant, 
impracticable,  good-for-nothing,  do-nothing  sort  of  thing  that 
ever  walked  upon  two  legs.  Well,  when  I  began  life,  I  took 
excellent  care  that  nobody  should  take  me  for  a  genius  ;  and  it 
is  only  within  the  last  year  or  two  that  I  have  ventured  to  emerge 
a  little  out  of  my  shell.  I  have  not  been  the  better  for  it ;  I 
was  getting  on  faster  while  I  was  merely  a  plodder.  The  world 
is  so  fond  of  that  droll  fable,  the  hare  and  the  tortoise — it  really 
believes  because  (  I  suppose  the  fable  to  be  true  I )  a  tortoise 
Ofice  beat  a  hare,  that  all  tortoises  are  much  better  runners  than 
hares  possibly  can  be.  Mediocre  men  have  the  monopoly  of 
the  loaves  and  fishes ;  and  even  when  talent  does  rise  in  life,  it 
is  a  talent  which  only  differs  from  mediocrity  by  being  more 
energetic  and  bustling." 

"  You  are  bitter,  Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline,  laughing  ; 
"  yet  surely  you  have  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  non- 
appreciation  of  talent  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  if  I  had  had  a  grain  more  talent  I  should  have 
been  crushed  by  it.  There  is  a  subtle  allegory  in  the  story  of 
the  lean  poet,  who  put  lead'va  his  pocket  to  prevent  being  blown 
away  !  Mais  a  nos  mouions — to  return  to  Maltravers.  Let  us 
suppose  that  he  was  merely  clever — had  not  had  a  particle  of 
what  is  called  genius — been  merely  a  hard-working,  able  gentle- 
man, of  good  character  and  fortune — he  might  be  half-way  up 
the  hill  by  this  time — whereas  now,  what  is  he?  Less  before  the 
public  than  he  was  at  twenty-eight — a  discontented  anchorite, 
a  meditative  idler." 

"No,  not  that,"  said  Evelyn  warmly,  and  then  checked  herself. 

Lord  Vargrave  looked  at  her  sharply  ;  but  his  knowledge  of 
life  told  him  that  Legard  was  a  much  more  dangerous  rival 
than  Maltravers.  Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  a  suspicion  to  the 
contrary  crossed  him  ;  but  it  did  not  take  root  and  become  a 
serious  apprehension.  Still  he  did  not  quite  like  the  tone  of 
voice  in  which  Evelyn  had  put  her  abrupt  negative,  and  said 
with  a  slight  sneer  : 

"  If  not  that,  what  is  he  ?" 

"  One  who  purchased,  by  the  noblest  exertions,  the  right  to 
be  idle,"  said  Evelyn,  with  spirit ;  "  and  whom  genius  itself 
will  not  suffer  to  be  idle  long." 

"Besides,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "he  has  won  a  high  reputation, 
which  he  cannot  lose  merely  by  not  seeking  to  increase  it." 


ALICE;   6ft,  THE  MVsrEkiES.  151 

"  Reputation  ! — oli  yes  ! — we  give  men  like  that — men  of 
genius — a  large  property  in  the  clouds,  in  order  to  justify  our- 
selves in  pushing  them  out  of  our  way  below.  But  if  they  are 
contented  with  fame,  why,  they  deserve  their  fate.  Hang  fame  ! 
— give  me  power." 

"And  is  there  no  power  in  genius?"  said  Evelyn,  with  deepen- 
ing fervor  ;  "  no  power  over  the  mind,  and  the  heart,  and  the 
thought ;  no  power  over  its  own  time — over  posterity — over 
nations  yet  uncivilized — races  yet  unborn?" 

This  burst  from  one  so  simple  and  young  as  Evelyn  seemed 
to  Vargrave  so  surprising,  that  he  stared  on  her  without  saying 
a  word. 

"  You  will  laugh  at  my  championship,"  she  added,  with  a 
blush  and  a  smile  ;  "  but  you  provoked  the  encounter." 

"  And  you  have  won  the  battle,"  said  Vargrave,  with  prompt 
gallantry.  "  My  charming  ward,  every  day  develops  in  you 
some  new  gift  of  nature  !  " 

Caroline,  with  a  movement  of  impatience,  put  her  horse  into 
a  canter. 

Just  at  this  time,  from  a  cross-road,  emerged  a  horseman — it 
was  Maltravers.     The  party  halted — salutations  were  exchanged. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  enjoying  the  sweet  business  of 
squiredom,"  said  Vargrave  gayly  :  "  Atticus  and  his  farm — 
classical  associations  !  Charming  weather  for  the  agriculturists, 
eh  ! — what  news  about  corn  and  barley?  I  suppose  our  English 
habit  of  talking  on  the  weather  arose  when  we  were  all  a  squire- 
archal,  farming,  George  the  Third  kind  of  people?  Weather  is 
really  a  serious  matter  to  gentlemen  who  are  interested  in  beans 
and  vetches,  wheat  and  hay.  You  hang  your  happiness  upon 
the  changes  of  the  moon  ! " 

"  As  you  upon  the  smiles  of  a  minister.  The  weather  of  a  court 
is  more  capricious  tlian  that  of  the  skies  ;  at  least  we  are  better 
husbandmen  than  you  who  sow  the  wind  and  reap  the  whirlwind." 

"  Well  retorted:  and  really,  when  I  look  round,  I  am  half 
inclined  to  envy  you.  Were  I  not  Vargrave,  I  would  be 
Maltravers." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  scene  that  seemed  quiet  and  serene  with  the 
English  union  of  the  Feudal  and  the  Pastoral  life;  the  village- 
green,  with  its  trim  scattered  cottages — the  fields  and  pastures 
that  spread  beyond — the  turf  of  the  park  behind,  broken  by  the 
shadows  of  the  unequal  grounds,  with  its  mounds,  and  hollows, 
and  venerable  groves,  from  which  rose  the  turrets  of  the  old 
hall,  its  muUion  windows  gleaming  in  the  western  sun, — a 
scene  that  preached  tranquillity  and  content,  and  might  have 


152  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

been  equally  grateful  to  humble  philosophy  and  hereditary 
pride, 

"  I  never  saw  any  place  so  peculiar  in  its  character  as  Bur- 
leigh," said  the  rector ;  "  the  old  seats  left  to  us  in  England 
are  chiefly  those  of  our  great  nobles.  It  is  so  rare  to  see  one 
that  does  not  aspire  beyond  the  residence  of  a  private  gentle- 
man preserve  all  the  relics  of  the  Tudor  age." 

"  I  think,"  said  Vargrave,  turning  to  Evelyn,  "  that  as,  by  my 
uncle's  will,  your  fortune  is  to  be  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of 
land,  we  could  not  find  a  better  investment  than  Burleigh,  So, 
whenever  you  are  inclined  to  sell,  Maltravers,  I  think  we  must 
outbid  Doltimore.     What  say  you,  my  fair  ward?" 

"Leave  Burleigh  in  peace,  I  beseech  you  !"  said  Maltravers 
angrily. 

"That  is  said  like  a  Digby,"  returned  Vargrave.  Aliens! — 
will  you  not  come  home  with  us  ?" 

"I  thank  you — not  to-day." 

"  We  meet  at  Lord  Raby's  next  Thursday.  It  is  a  ball  given 
almost  wholly  in  honor  of  your  return  to  Burleigh  ;  we  are  all 
going — it  is  my  young  cousin's  d^b^it  at  Knaresdean.  We  have 
all  an  interest  in  her  conquests." 

Now  as  Maltravers  looked  up  to  answer,  he  caught  Evelyn's 
glance,  and  his  voice  faltered. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  shall  meet — once  again.  Adieu!"  He 
wheeled  round  his  horse,  and  they  separated. 

"I  can  bear  this  no  more,"  said  Maltravers  to  himself  ;  "I 
overrated  my  strength.  To  see  her  thus  day  after  day,  and  to 
know  her  another's — to  writhe  beneath  his  calm,  unconscious 
assertion  of  his  rights.  Happy  Vargrave! — and  yet, ah!  will 
she  be  happy? — Oh,  could  I  think  so  !" 

Thus  soliloquizing,  he  suffered  the  rein  to  fall  on  the  neck 
of  his  horse,  which  paced  slowly  home  through  the  village,  till 
it  stopped — as  if  in  the  mechanism  of  custom — at  the  door  of  a 
cottage,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  lodge.  At  this  door,  indeed, 
for  several  successive  days,  had  Maltravers  stopped  regularly ; 
it  was  now  tenanted  by  the  poor  woman,  his  introduction  to 
whom  has  been  before  narrated.  She  had  recovered  from  the 
immediate  effects  of  the  injury  she  had  sustained  ;  but  her  con- 
stitution, greatly  broken  by  previous  suffering  and  exhaustion, 
had  received  a  mortal  shock.  She  was  hurt  inwardly  ;  and  the 
surgeon  informed  Maltravers  that  she  had  not  many  months  to 
live.  He  had  placed  her  under  the  roof  of  one  of  his  favorite 
cottagers,  where  she  received  all  the  assistance  and  alleviation 
that  careful  nursing  and  medical  advice  could  give  her. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  I53 

This  poor  woman,  whose  name  was  Sarah  Elton,  interested 
Maltraversmuch  ;  she  had  known  better  days:  there  was  a  cer- 
tain propriety  in  her  expressions  which  denoted  an  education 
superior  to  her  circumstances  ;  and  what  touched  Maltravers 
most,  she  seemed  far  more  to  feel  her  husband's  death  than  her 
own  sufferings  ;  which,  somehow  or  other,  is  not  common  with 
widows  the  other  side  of  forty  !  We  say  that  youth  easily  con- 
soles itself  for  the  robberies  of  the  grave — middle  age  is  a  still 
better  self-comforter.  When  Mrs.  Elton  found  herself  installed 
in  the  cottage,  she  looked  round  and  burst  into  tears. 

"And  William  is  not  here  !"  she  said.  "Friends — friends  ! 
if  we  had  had  but  one  such  friend  before  he  died  !  " 

Maltravers  was  pleased  that  her  first  thought  was  rather  that 
of  sorrow  for  the  dead,  than  of  gratitude  for  the  living.  Yet 
Mrs.  Elton  was  grateful — simply,  honestly,  deeply  grateful ;  her 
manner,  her  voice,  betokened  it.  And  she  seemed  so  glad  when 
her  benefactor  called  to  speak  kindly,  and  inquire  cordially,  that 
Maltravers  did  so  constantly;  at  first,  from  a  compassionate,  and 
at  last,  from  a  selfish  motive — for  who  is  not  pleased  to  give 
pleasure  ?  And  Maltravers  had  so  few  in  the  world  to  care  for 
him,  that  perhaps  he  was  flattered  by  the  grateful  respect  of 
this  humble  stranger. 

When  his  horse  stopped,  the  cottager's  daughter  opened  the 
door  and  curtsied — it  was  an  invitation  to  enter ;  and  he  threw 
his  rein  over  the  paling  and  walked  into  the  cottage. 

Mrs.  Elton,  who  had  been  seated  by  the  open  casement,  rose 
to  receive  him.  But  Maltravers  made  her  sit  down,  and  soon 
put  her  at  her  ease.  The  woman  and  her  daughter  who  occupied 
the  cottage  retired  into  the  garden  ;  and  Mrs.  Elton,  watching 
them  withdraw,  then  exclaimed  abruptly: 

"Oh,  sir!  I  have  so  longed  to  see  you  this  morning.  I  so 
long  to  make  bold  to  ask  you  whether,  indeed,  I  dreamed  it — or 
did  I,v/hen  you  first  took  me  to  your  house — did  I  see — "  She 
stopped  abruptly :  and,  though  she  strove  to  suppress  her  emo- 
tion, it  was  too  strong  for  her  efforts — she  sunk  back  on  her 
chair,  pale  as  death,  and  almost  gasped  for  breath. 

Maltravers  waited  in  surprise  for  her  recovery. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir — I  was  thinking  of  days  long  past ;  and — 
but  I  wished  to  ask  whether,  when  I  lay  in  your  hall,  almost  in- 
sensible, any  one  besides  yourself  and  your  servants  were  pres- 
ent?— or  was  it" — added  the  woman  with  a  shudder — "was  it 
the  dead  ? " 

"I  remember,"  said  Maltravers,  much  struck  and  interested 
in  her  question  and  manner,  "  that  a  lady  was  present." 


J54  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MVSTERIES. 

"  It  is  so — it  is  so  ! "  cried  the  woman,  half-rising  and  clasping 
her  hands.  "And  she  passed  by  the  cottage  a  little  time  ago  ; 
her  veil  was  thrown  aside  as  she  turned  that  fair  young  face  to- 
wards the  cottage.  Her  name,  sir — oh  !  what  is  her  name?  It 
was  the  same — tlie  same  face  that  shone  across  me  in  that  hour 
of  pain.     I  did  not  dream  !     I  was  not  mad  ! " 

"  Compose  yourself  ;  you  could  never  I  think  have  seen  that 
lady  before  :  her  name  is  Cameron." 

"Cameron — Cameron  !  " — the  woman  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully. "No;  that  name  is  strange  to  me  :  and  her  mother,  sir — 
she  is  dead?" 

"  No ;  her  mother  lives." 

A  shade  came  over  the  face  of  the  sufferer ;  and  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"  My  eyes  deceive  me  then,  sir ;  and,  indeed,  I  feel  that  my 
head  is  touched,  and  I  wander  sometimes.  But  the  likeness  was 
so  great ;  yet  that  young  lady  is  even  lovelier  ! " 

"  Likenesses  are  very  deceitful,  and  very  capricious  ;  and  de- 
pend more  on  fancy  than  reality.  One  person  discovers  a  like- 
ness between  faces  most  dissimilar,  a  likeness  invisible  to  others. 
But  who  does  Miss  Cameron  resemble?" 

"  One  now  dead,  sir  ;  dead  many  years  ago.  But  it  is  a  long 
story,  and  one  that  lies  heavy  on  my  conscience.  Some  day  or 
other,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  sir,  I  will  unburden  myself  to 
you." 

"  If  I  can  assist  you  in  any  way,  command  me.  Meanwhile, 
have  you  no  friends,  no  relations,  no  children,  whom  you  would 
wish  to  see  ? " 

"  Children  ! — no,  sir ;  I  never  had  but  one  child  of  my  own" 
(she  laid  an  emphasis  on  the  last  words),  and  that  died  in  a 
foreign  land  ! " 

"  And  no  other  relatives  ?  " 

"  None,  sir.  My  history  is  very  short  and  simple.  I  was  well 
brought  up — an  only  child.  My  father  was  a  small  farmer;  he 
died  when  I  was  sixteen,  and  I  went  into  service  with  a  kind  old 
lady  and  her  daughter,  who  treated  me  more  as  a  companion 
than  a  servant.  I  was  a  vain,  giddy  girl  then,  sir.  A  young 
man,  the  son  of  a  neighboring  farmer,  courted  me,  and  I  was 
much  attached  to  him  ;  but  neither  of  us  had  money,  and  his 
parents  would  not  give  their  consent  to  our  marrying.  I  was 
silly  enough  to  think  that,  if  William  loved  me,  he  should  have 
braved  all;  and  his  prudence  mortified  me;  so  I  married  another 
whom  I  did  not  love.  I  was  rightly  punished,  for  he  ill-used  me, 
and  took  to  drinking ;  I  returned  to  my  old  service  to  escape 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I^J 

from  him — for  I  was  with  child  and  my  life  was  in  danger  from 
his  violence.  He  died  suddenly  and  in  debt.  And  then,  after- 
wards, a  gentleman — a  rich  gentleman — to  whom  I  rendered  a 
service  (do  not  misunderstand  me,  sir,  if  I  say  the  service  was 
one  of  wliich  I  repent),  gave  me  money  and  made  me  rich  enough 
to  marry  my  first  lover;  and  William  and  I  went  to  America. 
We  lived  many  years  in  New  York  upon  our  little  fortune  com- 
fortably ;  and  I  was  a  long  while  happy,  for  I  had  always  loved 
William  dearly.  My  first  affliction  was  the  death  of  my  child 
by  my  first  husband  ;  but  I  was  soon  roused  from  my  grief. 
William  schemed  and  speculated,  as  everybody  does  in  America, 
and  so  we  lost  all:  and  William  was  weakly  and  could  not  work. 
At  length  he  got  the  place  of  steward  on  board  a  vessel  from 
New  York  to  Liverpool,  and  I  was  taken  to  assist  in  the  cabin. 
We  wanted  to  come  to  London:  I  thought  my  old  benefactor 
might  do  something  for  us,  though  he  had  never  answered  the 
letters  I  sent  him.  But  poor  William  fell  ill  on  board,  and  died 
in  sight  of  land." 

Mrs.  Elton  wept  bitterly,  but  with  the  subdued  grief  of  one 
to  whom  tears  have  been  familiar  ;  and  when  she  recovered, 
she  soon  brought  her  humble  tale  to  an  end.  She  herself,  in- 
capacitated from  all  work  by  sorrow  and  a  breaking  constitution, 
was  left  in  the  streets  of  Liverpool  without  other  means  of  sub- 
sistence than  the  charitable  contributions  of  the  passengers  and 
sailors  on  board  the  vessel.  With  this  sum  she  had  gone  to 
London,  where  she  found  her  old  patron  had  been  long  since 
dead,  and  she  had  no  claims  on  his  family.  She  had,  on  quit- 
ting England,  left  one  relation  settled  in  a  town  in  the  North  ; 
thither  she  now  repaired,  to  find  her  last  hope  wrecked  ;  the 
relation  also  was  dead  and  gone.  Her  money  was  now  spent, 
and  she  had  begged  her  way  along  the  road,  or  through  the 
lanes,  she  scarce  knew  whither,  till  the  accident,  which,  in 
shortening  her  life,  had  raised  up  a  friend  for  its  close. 

"And  such,  sir,"  said  she  in  conclusion,  "such  has  been  the 
story  of  my  life,  except  one  part  of  it,  which,  if  I  get  stronger, 
I  can  tell  better ;  but  you  will  excuse  that  now." 

"  And  are  you  comfortable  and  contented,  my  poor  friend  ? 
These  people  are  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  kind  ! — and  every  night  we  all  pray  for  you,  sir ; 
you  ought  to  be  happy,^  if  the  blessings  of  the  poor  can  avail 
the  rich." 

Maltravers  remounted  his  horse  and  sought  his  home  ;  and 
his  heart  was  lighter  than  before  he  entered  that  cottage.  But 
at  evening  Cleveland  talked  of  Vargrave  and  Evelyn,  and  the 


156  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

good  fortune  of  one,  and  the  charms  of  the  other ;  and  the 
wound,  so  well  concealed,  bled  afresh. 

"I  heard  from  De  Montaigne  the  other  day,"  said  Ernest, 
just  as  they  were  retiring  for  the  night,  "and  his  letter  decides 
my  movements.  If  you  will  accept  me,  then,  as  a  travelling 
companion,  I  will  go  with  you  to  Paris.  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind  to  leave  Burleigh  on  Saturday  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  gives  us  a  day  to  recover  from  Lord  Raby's  ball. 
I  am  so  delighted  at  your  offer  ; — we  need  only  stay  a  day  or  so 
in  town.  The  excursion  will  do  you  good — your  spirits,  my 
dear  Ernest,  seem  more  dejected  than  when  you  first  returned 
to  England  :  you  live  too  much  alone  here,  you  will  enjoy 
Burleigh  more  on  your  return.  And  perhaps  then  you  will 
open  the  old  house  a  little  more  to  the  neighborhood,  and  to 
your  friends.     They  expect  it ;  you  are  looked  to  for  the  county." 

"  I  am  done  with  politics,  and  sicken  but  for  peace." 

"  Pick  up  a  wife  in  Paris,  and  you  will  then  know  that  peace 
is  an  impossible  possession,"  said  the  old  bachelor,  laughing. 


BOOK  V. 


Ni^wf  oi}^  iaaaiv  ba(ft  nMov  ^fiiav  kovtoc. — Hes.  Op.  et  Dies,  40. 

Fools  blind  to  truth  ;  nor  know  their  erring  soul 
How  much  the  half  is  better  than  the  whole. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Do,  as  the  Heavens  have  done  ;  forget  your  evil : 
With  them,  forgive  yourself." — TA£  IVinter's  Tale. 

"  *  *  *  The  sweet'st  companion,  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of." — Ibid. 

The  curate  of  Brook-Green  was  sitting  outside  his  door. 
The  vicarage  which  he  inhabited  was  a  straggling,  irregular, 
but  picturesque  building  ;  humble  enough  to  suit  the  means  of 
the  curate,  yet  large  enough  to  accommodate  the  vicar.  It  had 
been  built  in  an  age  when  the  indigentes  et pauperes  for  whom 
universities  were  founded  supplied,  mere  than  they  do  now,  the 
fountains  of  the  Christian  ministry — when  pastor  and  flock  were 
roore  on  ap  equality. 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I57 

From  under  a  rude  and  arched  porch,  with  an  oaken  settle 
on  either  side  for  the  poor  visitor,  the  door  opened  at  once 
upon  the  old-fashioned  parlor — a  homely  but  pleasant  room, 
with  one  wide  but  low  cottage  casement,  beneath  which  stood 
the  dark  shining  table,  that  supported  the  large  Bible  in  its 
green  baize  cover;  the  Concordance,  and  the  last  Sunday's 
sermon,  in  its  jetty  case.  There  by  the  fireplace  stood  the 
bachelor's  round  elbow-chair,  with  a  needlework  cushion  at 
the  back  ;  a  walnut-tree  bureau  ;  another  table  or  two  ;  half  a 
dozen  plain  chairs  constituted  the  rest  of  the  furniture,  saving 
some  two  or  three  hundred  volumes,  ranged  in  neat  shelves  on 
the  clean  wainscoted  walls.  There  was  another  room,  to  which 
you  ascended  by  two  steps,  communicating  with  this  parlor, 
smaller,  but  finer,  and  inhabited  only  on  festive  days,  when 
Lady  Vargrave,  or  some  other  quiet  neighbor,  came  to  drink 
tea  with  the  good  curate. 

An  old  housekeeper  and  her  grandson — a  young  fellow  of 
about  two-and-twenty,  who  tended  the  garden,  milked  the  cow, 
and  did  in  fact  what  he  was  wanted  to  do — composed  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  humble  minister. 

We  have  digressed  from  Mr.  Aubrey  himself. 

The  curate  was  seated,  then,  one  fine  summer  morning,  on  a 
bench  at  the  left  of  his  porch,  screened  from  the  sun  by  the 
cool  boughs  of  a  chestnut-tree,  the  shadow  of  which  half  covered 
the  little  lawn  that  separated  the  precincts  of  the  house  from  those 
of  silent  Death  and  everlasting  Hope  ;  above  the  irregular  and 
moss-grown  paling  rose  the  village  church  ;  and,  through  open- 
ings in  the  trees,  beyond  the  burial-ground,  partially  gleamed 
the  white  walls  of  Lady  Vargrave's  cottage,  and  were  seen  at 
a  distance  the  sails  on  the 

"  Mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

The  old  man  was  calmly  enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  morning, 
the  freshness  of  the  air,  the  warmth  of  the  dancing  beam,  and 
not  least,  perhaps,  his  own  peaceful  thoughts  ;  the  spontaneous 
children  of  a  contemplative  spirit  and  a  quiet  conscience.  His 
was  the  age  when  we  most  sensitively  enjoy  the  mere  sense  of 
existence  ;  when  the  face  of  Nature,  and  a  passive  conviction 
of  the  benevolence  of  our  Great  Father,  suffice  to  create  a  serene 
and  ineffable  happiness,  which  rarely  visits  us  till  we  have  done 
with  the  passions ;  till  memories,  if  more  alive  than  heretofore, 
are  yet  mellowed  in  the  hues  of  time,  and  Faith  softens  into 
harmony  all  their  asperities  and  harshness  ;  till  nothing  within 
us  remains  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  things  without  •,  and  on 


158  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES, 

the  verge  of  life,  the  Angels  are  nearer  to  us  than  of  yore. 
There  is  an  old  age  which  has  more  youth  of  heart  than  youth 
itself ! 

As  the  old  man  thus  sate,  the  little  gate  through  which,  on 
Sabbath  days,  he  was  wont  to  pass  from  the  humble  mansion 
to  the  house  of  God  noiselessly  opened,  and  Lady  Vargrave 
appeared. 

The  curate  rose  when  he  perceived  her  ;  and  the  lady's  fair 
features  were  lighted  up  with  a  gentle  pleasure,  as  she  pressed 
his  hand  and  returned  his  salutation. 

There  was  a  peculiarity  in  Lady  Vargrave's  countenance  which 
I  have  rarely  seen  in  others.  Her  smile,  which  was  singularly 
expressive,  came  less  from  the  lip  than  from  the  eyes  ;  it  was 
almost  as  if  the  brow  smiled — it  was  as  the  sudden  and  momen- 
tary vanishing  of  a  light  but  melancholy  cloud  that  usually 
rested  upon  the  features,  placid  as  they  were. 

They  sate  down  on  the  rustic  bench,  and  the  sea-breeze 
wantoned  amongst  the  quivering  leaves  of  the  chestnut-tree  that 
overhung  their  seat. 

"I  have  come,  as  usual,  to  consult  my  kind  friend," said  Lady 
Vargrave ;  "and,  as  usual  also,  it  is  about  our  absent  Evelyn." 

"  Have  you  heard  again  from  her,  this  morning  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  her  letter  increases  the  anxiety  which  your  obser- 
vation, so  much  deeper  than  mine,  first  awakened." 

"Does  she  then  write  much  of  Lord  Vargrave  ?" 

"  Not  a  great  deal  ;  but  the  little  she  does  say,  betrays  how 
much  she  shrinks  from  the  union  my  poor  husband  desired : 
more,  indeed,  than  ever  !  But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  worst : 
for  you  know,  that  the  late  lord  had  provided  against  that  prob- 
ability— (he  loved  her  so  tenderly,  his  ambition  for  her  only 
came  from  his  affection) — and  the  letter  he  left  behind  him 
pardons  and  releases  her,  if  she  revolts  from  the  choice  he  him- 
self preferred." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  is  perhaps  a  generous,  he  certainly  seems  a 
candid,  man,  and  he  must  be  sensible  that  his  uncle  has  already 
d«ne  all  that  justice  required." 

"  I  think  so.  But  this,  as  I  said,  is  not  all  ;  I  have  brought 
the  letter  to  show  you.  It  seems  to  me  as  you  apprehended. 
This  Mr.  Maltravers  has  wound  himself  about  her  thoughts 
more  than  she  herself  imagines  ;  you  see  how  she  dwells  on  all 
that  concerns  him,  and  how,  after  checking  herself,  she  returns 
again  and  again  to  the  same  subject." 

The  curate  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  took  the  letter.  It  was 
a  strange  thing,  that  old  gray- haired  minister  evincing  such  grave 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  1^0 

interest  in  the  secrets  of  that  young  heart  !  But  they  who 
would  take  charge  of  the  soul,  must  never  be  too  wise  to  regard 
the  heart ! 

Lady  Vargrave  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he  bent  down  to 
read,  and  at  times  placed  her  finger  on  such  passages  as  she 
wished  him  to  note.  The  old  curate  nodded  as  she  did  so; 
but  neither  spoke  till  the  letter  was  concluded. 

The  curate  then  folded  up  the  epistle,  took  off  his  spectacles, 
hemmed,  and  looked  grave. 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  anxiously,  "  well  ?  " 

"  My  dear  friend,  the  letter  requires  consideration.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  clear  to  me  that,  in  spite  of  Lord  Vargrave's 
presence  at  the  rectory,  his  lordship  so  manages  matters  that 
the  poor  child  is  unable  of  herself  to  bring  that  matter  to  a 
conclusion.  And,  indeed,  to  a  mind  so  sensitively  delicate  and 
honorable,  it  is  no  easy  task." 

"  Shall  I  write  to  Lord  Vargrave  ?  " 

"  Let  us  think  of  it.     In  the  niean  while,  this  Mr.  Maltravers — " 

"  Ah,  this  Mr.  Maltravers  !  " 

"  The  child  shows  us  more  of  her  heart  than  she  thinks  of; 
and  yet  I  myself  am  puzzled.  If  you  observe,  she  has  only 
once  or  twice  spoken  of  the  Colonel  Legard,  whom  she  has 
made  acquaintance  with  ;  while  she  treats  at  length  of  Mr. 
Maltravers,  and  confesses  the  effect  he  has  produced  on  her 
mind.  Yet,  do  you  know,  I  more  dread  the  caution  respecting 
the  first,  than  all  the  candor  that  betrays  the  influence  of  the 
last  ?  There  is  a  great  difference  between  first  fancy  and  first 
love." 

"  Is  there  ? "  said  the  lady,  abstractedly. 

"  Again,  neither  of  us  is  acquainted  with  this  singular  man — 
I  mean  Maltravers  ;  his  character,  temper,  and  principles — of 
all  of  which  Evelyn  is  too  young,  too  guileless,  to  judge  for 
herself.     One  thing,  however,  in  her  letter  speaks  in  his  favor." 

"  What  is  that  ? " 

"  He  absents  himself  from  her.  This,  if  he  has  discovered 
her  secret — or  if  he  himself  is  sensible  of  too  great  a  charm  in 
her  presence — would  be  the  natural  course  that  an  honorable 
and  a  strong  mind  would  pursue." 

"  What !— If  he  love  her  ?  " 

"  Yes — while  he  believes  her  hand  is  engaged  to  another." 

"True!  What  shall  be  done — if  Evelyn  should  love,  and 
love  in  vain?     Ah,  it  is  the  misery  of  a  whole  existence !" 

"Perhaps  she  had  better  return  to  us,"  said  Mr.  Aubrey; 
"  and  yet,  if  already  it  be  too  late,  and  her  affections  are  en- 


l6o  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

gaged — we  should  still  remain  in  ignorance  respecting  the 
motives  and  mind  of  the  object  of  her  attachment.  And  he, 
too,  might  not  know  the  true  nature  of  the  obstacle  connected 
with  Lord  Vargrave's  claims." 

"  Shall  I,  then,  go  to  her  ?  You  know  how  I  shrink  from 
strangers — how  I  fear  curiosity,  doubts,  and  questions — how — 
(and  Lady  Vargrave's  voice  faltered) — how  unfitted  I  am  for — 
for — "she  stopped  short,  and  a  faint  blush  overspread  her  cheeks. 

The  curate  understood  her,  and  was  moved. 

"  Dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  will  you  intrust  this  charge  to  my- 
self? You  know  how  Evelyn  is  endeared  to  me  by  certain 
recollections  !  Perhaps,  better  than  you,  I  may  be  enabled 
silently  to  examine  if  this  man  be  worthy  of  her,  and  one  who 
could  secure  her  happiness ;  perhaps,  better  than  you,  I  may 
ascertain  the  exact  nature  of  her  own  feelings  toward  him; 
perhaps  too,  better  than  you,  I  may  effect  an  understanding 
with  Lord  Vargrave." 

"  You  are  always  my  kindest  friend,"  said  the  lady,  with 
emotion;  "how  much  I  already  owe  you! — what  hopes  beyond 
the  grave  !  what — " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  the  curate  gently;  "your  own  good 
heart  and  pure  intentions  have  worked  out  your  own  atone- 
ment— may  I  hope  also  your  own  content.  Let  us  return  to 
our  Evelyn  :  poor  child  !  how  unlike  this  despondent  letter  to 
her  gay,  light  spirits  when  with  us!  We  acted  for  the  best;  yet, 
perhaps,  we  did  wrong  to  yield  her  up  to  strangers.  And  this 
Maltravers  ! — with  her  enthusiasm  and  quick  susceptibilities  to 
genius,  she  was  half  prepared  to  imagine  him  all  she  depicts 
him  to  be.  -  He  must  have  a  spell  in  his  works  that  I  have  not 
discovered — for  at  times  it  seems  to  operate  even  on  you." 

"  Because,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  "  they  remind  me  of  his 
conversation — his  habits  of  thought.  If  like  him  in  other 
things,  Evelyn  may  indeed  be  happy  !  " 

"And  if,"  said  the  curate,  curiously — "  If  now  that  you  are 
free,  you  were  ever  to  meet  with  him  again,  and  his  memory 
had  been  as  faithful  as  yours — and  if  he  offered  the  sole  atone- 
ment in  his  power,  for  all  that  his  early  error  cost  you — if  such 
a  chance  should  happen  in  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  you  would — " 

The  curate  stopped  short ;  for  he  was  struck  by  the  exceed- 
ing paleness  of  his  friend's  cheek,  and  the  tremor  of  her  deli- 
cate frame. 

"  If  that  were  to  happen,"  said  she,  in  a  very  low  voice;  "  if 
we  were  to  meet  again,  and  if  he  were — as  you  and  Mrs.  Leslie 
seem  to  think — poor,  and,  like  myself,  humbly  born — if  my  for- 


ALICE  ;   OR,  The:  mVsTerieS.  \6t 

tune  could  assist  him — if  my  love  could  still — changed,  altered 
as  I  am — ah  !  do  not  talk  of  it — I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of 
happiness  !  And  yet,  if  before  I  die  I  cou/d  but  see  him  again!" 
She  clasped  her  hands  fervently  as  she  spoke,  and  the  blush  that 
overspread  her  face  threw  over  it  so  much  of  bloom  and  fresh- 
ness, that  even  Evelyn,  at  that  moment,  would  scarcely  have 
seemed  more  young.  "  Enough,"  she  added,  after  a  little 
while,  as  the  glow  died  away.  "  It  is  but  a  foolish  hope  ;  all 
earthly  love  is  buried;  and  my  heart  is  there  !  " — she  pointed  to 
the  heavens,  and  both  were  silent 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Quibus  otio  vel  magnified,  vel  molliter  vivere  copia  erat,  incertapro 
certis  malebant."  * — Sallust. 

Lord  Raby — one  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  splendid  noble- 
men in  England — was  prouder,  perhaps,  of  his  provincial  dis- 
tinctions than  the  eminence  of  his  rank  or  the  fashion  of  his 
wife.  The  magnificent  chateaux — the  immense  estates  of  our 
English  peers — tend  to  preserve  to  us,  in  spite  of  the  freedom, 
bustle,  and  commercial  grandeur  of  our  people,  more  of  the 
Norman  attributes  of  aristocracy  than  can  be  found  in  other 
countries.  In  his  county,  the  great  noble  is  a  petty  prince — • 
his  house  is  a  court — his  possessions  and  munificence  are  a 
boast  to  every  proprietor  in  his  district.  They  are  as  fond  of 
talking  of  //le  Earl's  or  f/ie  Duke's  movements  and  entertain- 
ments, as  Dangeau  was  of  the  gossip  of  the  Tuileries  and  Ver- 
sailles. 

Lord  Raby,  while  affecting,  as  lieutenant  of  the  county,  to 
make  no  political  distinctions  between  squire  and  squire — 
hospitable  and  affable  to  all — still,  by  that  very  absence  of 
exclusiveness,  gave  a  tone  to  the  politics  of  the  whole  county ; 
and  converted  many  who  had  once  thought  differently  on  the 
respective  virtues  of  Whigs  and  Tories.  A  great  man  never 
loses  so  much  as  when  he  exhibits  intolerance,  or  parades  the 
right  of  persecution. 

"My  tenants  shall  vote  exactly  as  they  please,"  said  Lord 
Raby ;  and  he  was  never  known  to  have  a  tenant  vote  against 
his  wishes !  Keeping  a  vigilant  eye  on  all  the  interests,  and 
conciliating  all  the  proprietors,  in  the  county,  he  not  only  never 

♦  They  who  had  the  means  to  live  at  ease,  either  in  splendor  or  in  luxury,  preferred 
the  uncertainty  of  change,  to  their  natural  security. 


i6i  AiiCE  ;    or,  the  mysteries. 

lost  a  friend,  but  he  kept  together  a  body  of  partisans  that  con* 
stantly  added  to  its  numbers. 

Sir  John  Merton's  colleague,  a  young  Lord  Nelthorpe,  who 
could  not  speak  three  sentences  if  you  took  away  his  hat ;  and 
who,  constant  at  Almack's,  was  not  only  inaudible,  but  invisible 
in  Parliament,  had  no  chance  of  being  re-elected.  LordNel- 
thorpe's  father,  the  Earl  of  Mainwaring,  was  a  new  peer ;  and, 
next  to  Lord  Raby,  the  richest  nobleman  in  the  county.  Now, 
though  they  were  much  of  the  same  politics,  Lord  Raby  hated 
Lord  Mainwaring.  They  were  too  near  each  other — they 
clashed — they  had  the  jealousy  of  rival  princes  ! 

Lord  Raby  was  delighted  at  the  notion  of  getting  rid  of  Lord 
Nelthorpe — it  would  be  so  sensible  a  blow  to  the  Mainwaring 
interest.  The  party  had  been  looking  out  for  a  new  candidate, 
and  Maltravers  had  been  much  talked  of.  It  is  true  that,  when 
in  Parliament  some  years  before,  the  politics  of  Maltravers  had 
differed  from  those  of  Lord  Raby  and  his  set.  But  Maltravers 
had  of  late  taken  no  share  in  politics — had  uttered  no  political 
opinions — was  intimate  with  the  electioneering  Mertons — was 
supposed  to  be  a  discontented  man — and  politicians  believe  in 
no  discontent  that  is  not  political.  Whispers  were  afloat  that 
Maltravers  had  grown  wise,  and  changed  his  views :  some 
remarks  of  his,  more  theoretical  than  practical,  were  quoted  in 
favor  of  this  notion.  Parties,  too,  had  much  changed  since 
Maltravers  had  appeared  on  the  busy  scene — new  questions  had 
arisen,  and  the  old  ones  had  died  off. 

Lord  Raby  and  his  party  thought  that,  if  Maltravers  could 
be  secured  to  them,  no  one  would  better  suit  their  purpose. 
Political  faction  loves  converts  better  even  than  consistent 
adherents.  A  man's  rise  in  life  generally  dates  from  a  well- 
timed  raf.  His  high  reputation — his  provincial  rank  as  the 
representative  of  the  oldest  commoner's  family  in  the  county — • 
his  age,  which  combined  the  energy  of  one  period  with  the  ex- 
perience of  another — all  united  to  accord  Maltravers  a  prefer- 
ence over  richer  men.  Lord  Raby  had  been  pointedly  cour- 
teous and  flattering  to  the  master  of  Burleigh  ;  and  he  now 
contrived  it  so  that  the  brilliant  entertainment  he  was  about  to 
give  might  appear  in  compliment  to  a  distinguished  neighbor, 
returned  to  fix  his  residence  on  his  patrimonial  property,  while 
in  reality  it  might  serve  an  electioneering  purpose — serve  to 
introduce  Maltravers  to  the  county,  as  if  under  his  lordship's 
own  wing — and  minister  f;o  political  uses  that  went  beyond  the 
mere  representation  of  the  county. 

Lord  Vargrave  had,  during  his  stay  at  Merton  Rectory,  paid 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  163 

Several  visits  to  Knaresdean,  and  held  many  private  conversa- 
tions with  the  marquess :  the  result  of  these  conversations  was 
a  close  union  of  schemes  and  interests  between  the  two  noble- 
men. Dissatisfied  with  the  political  conduct  of  government, 
LordRaby  was  also  dissatisfied  that,  from  various  party  reasons, 
a  nobleman  beneath  himself  in  rank,  and  as  he  thought  in  influ- 
ence, had  obtained  a  preference  in  a  recent  vacancy  among  the 
Knights  of  the  Garter.  And  if  Vargrave  had  a  talent  in  the 
world,  it  was  in  discovering  the  weak  points  of  men  whom  he 
sought  to  gain,  and  making  the  vanities  of  others  conduce  to 
his  own  ambition. 

The  festivities  of  Knaresdean  gave  occasion  to  Lord  Raby 
to  unite  at  his  house  the  more  prominent  of  those  who  thought 
and  acted  in  concert  with  Lord  Vargrave ;  and  in  this  secret 
senate,  the  operations  for  the  following  session  were  to  be 
seriously  discussed  and  gravely  determined. 

On  the  day  which  was  to  be  concluded  Avith  the  ball  at 
Knaresdean,  Lord  Vargrave  went  before  the  rest  of  the  Merton 
party,  for  he  was  engaged  to  dine  with  the  marquess. 

On  arriving  at  Knaresdean,  Lumley  found  Lord  Saxingham 
and  some  other  politicians,  who  had  arrived  the  preceding  da)', 
closeted  with  Lord  Raby ;  and  Vargrave,  who  shone  to  yet 
greater  advantage  in  the  diplomacy  of  party  management  than 
in  the  arena  of  Parliament,  brought  penetration,  energy,  and 
decision  to  timid  and  fluctuating  councils.  Lord  Vargrave 
lingered  in  the  room  after  the  first  bell  had  summoned  the 
other  guests  to  depart. 

"My  dear  lord,"  said  he  then,  "though  no  one  would  be 
more  glad  than  myself  to  secure  Maltravers  to  our  side,  I  very 
much  doubt  whether  you  will  succeed  in  doing  so.  On  the  one 
hand,  he  appears  altogether  disgusted  with  politics  and  Parlia- 
ment;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  fancy  that  reports  of  his  change 
of  opinions  are,  if  not  wholly  unfounded,  very  unduly  colored. 
Moreover,  to  do  him  justice,  I  think  that  he  is  not  one  to  be 
blinded  and  flattered  into  the  pale  of  a  party  ;  and  your  bird 
will  fly  away,  after  you  have  wasted  a  bucketful  of  salt  on  his 
tail." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  Lord  Raby,  laughing;  "you  know  him 
better  than  I  do.  But  there  are  many  purposes  to  serve  in 
this  matter — purposes  too  provincial  to  interest  you.  In  the 
first  place,  we  shall  humble  the  Nelthorpe  interest,  merely  by 
showing  that  we  do  think  of  a  new  member :  secondly,  we  shall 
get  up  a  manifestation  of  feeling  that  would  be  impossible, 
unless  we  were  provided  with  a  centre  of  attraction  :  thirdly, 


1(54  ALICE.;    ok,  tliE  MVStfiRtfiS. 

we  shall  rouse  a  certain  emulation  among  other  county  gentle* 
men  ;  and  if  Maltravers  decline,  we  shall  have  many  applicants  : 
and  fourthly,  suppose  Maltravers  has  not  changed  his  opinions, 
we  shall  make  him  suspected  by  the  party  he  really  does  belong 
to,  and  which  would  be  somewhat  formidable  if  he  were  to  head 
them.  In  fact,  these  are  mere  county  tactics,  that  you  can't 
be  expected  to  understand." 

"I  see  you  are  quite  right ;  meanwhile  you  will  at  least  have 
an  opportunity  (though  I  say  it,  who  should  not  say  it)  to  pre- 
sent to  the  county  one  of  the  prettiest  young  ladies  that  ever 
graced  the  halls  of  Knaresdean." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Cameron  !  I  have  heard  much  of  her  beauty  : 
you  are  a  lucky  fellow,  Vargrave  ! — by  the  by,  are  we  to  say 
anything  of  the  engagement?" 

"  Why,  indeed,  my  dear  lord,  it  is  now  so  publicly  known, 
that  it  would  be  false  delicacy  to  affect  concealment." 

"Very  well ;  I  understand." 

"  How  long  I  have  detained  you — a  thousand  pardons  ! — I 
have  but  just  time  to  dress.  In  four  or  five  months  I  must  re- 
member to  leave  you  a  longer  time  for  your  toilet." 

"  Me — how." 

"  Oh,  the  Duke  of can't  live  long  ;  and  I  always  observe, 

that  when  a  handsome  man  has  the  Garter,  he  takes  a  long  time 
pulling  up  his  stockings." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  you  are  so  droll,  Vargrave." 

"Ha,  ha!— I  must  be  off." 

"  The  more  publicity  is  given  to  this  arrangement,  the  more 
difficult  for  Evelyn  to  shy  at  the  leap,"  muttered  Vargrave  to 
himself  as  he  closed  the  door,  "Thus  do  I  make  all  things 
useful  to  myself." 

The  dinner-party  were  assembled  in  the  great  drawing-room, 
when  Maltravers  and  Cleveland,  also  invited  guests  to  the  ban- 
quet, were  announced.  Lord  Raby  received  the  former  with 
marked  empressementj  and  tlie  stately  marchioness  honored  him 
with  her  most  gracious  smile.  Formal  presentations  to  the  rest 
of  the  guests  were  interchanged  ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  circle 
was  fully  gone  through  that  Maltravers  perceived,  seated  by 
himself  in  a  corner,  to  which  he  had  shrunk  on  the  entrance  of 
Maltravers,  a  gray-haired,  solitary  man — it  was  Lord  Saxing- 
ham  !  The  last  time  they  had  met  was  in  the  death-chamber 
of  Florence  ;  and  the  old  man  forgot,  for  the  moment,  the  an- 
ticipated dukedom  and  the  dreamed-of  premiership  ! — and  his 
heart  flew  back  to  the  grave  of  his  only  child  !  They  saluted 
each  other — and  shook  hands  in  silqnce.    And  Vargrave — whose 


ALiCfe  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES,  iCj 

eye  was  on  tlicm — Vargrave,  whose  artshad  made  tliat  old  man 
childless,  felt  not  a  pang  of  remorse  !  Living  ever  in  the  future, 
Vargrave  almost  seemed  to  have  lost  his  memory.  He  knew 
rot  what  regret  was.  It  is  a  condition  of  life  with  men  thoroughly 
worldly  that  they  never  look  behind  ! 

The  signal  was  given  :  in  due  order  the  party  were  marshalled 
into  the  great  hall — a  spacious  and  lofty  chamber,  which  had 
received  its  last  alteration  from  the  hand  of  Inigo  Jones  ;  though 
the  massive  ceiling,  with  its  antique  and  grotesque  masks,  be- 
trayed a  much  earlier  date,  and  contrasted  with  the  Corinthian 
pilasters  that  adorned  the  walls,  and  supported  the  music  gal- 
lery— from  which  waved  the  flags  of  modern  warfare  and  its 
mimicries.  The  Eagle  of  Napoleon,  a  token  of  the  services  of 
Lord  Raby's  brother  (a  distinguished  cavalry  officer  in  command 
at  Waterloo),  in  juxtaposition  with  a  much  gayer  and  more 
glittering  banner,  emblematic  of  the  martial  fame  of  Lord  Raby 
himself,  as  Colonel  of  the  B shire  volunteers  ! 

The  music  pealed  from  the  gallery — the  plate  glittered  on  the 
board — the  ladies  wore  diamonds,  and  the  gentlemen,  who  had 
them,  wore  stars.  It  was  a  very  fine  sight,  that  banquet ! — 
such  as  became  the  festive  day  of  a  lord-lieutenant,  whose  an- 
cestors had  now  defied,  and  now  intermarried,  with  royalty.  But 
there  was  very  little  talk,  and  no  merriment.  People  at  the  top 
of  the  table  drunk  wine  with  those  at  the  bottom  ;  and  gentle- 
men and  ladies  seated  next  to  each  other  whispered  languidly 
in  monosyllabic  commune.  On  one  side,  Maltravers  was 
flanked  by  a  Lady  Somebody  Something,  who  was  rather  deaf, 
and  very  much  frightened  for  fear  he  should  talk  Greek  ;  on 
the  other  side  he  was  relieved  by  Sir  John  Merton — very  civil, 
very  pompous,  and  talking,  at  strictured  intervals,  about  county 
matters,  in  a  measured  intonation,  savoring  of  the  House  of 
Commons  jerk  at  the  end  of  the  sentence. 

As  the  dinner  advanced  to  its  close.  Sir  John  became  a 
little  more  diffuse,  though  his  voice  sunk  into  a  whisper. 

"  I  fear  there  will  be  a  split  in  the  Cabinet  before  Parliament 
meets." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes  ;  Vargrave  and  the  Premier  cannot  pull  together  very 
long.  Clever  man,  Vargrave  !  but  he  has  not  enough  stake  in 
the  country  for  a  leader  ! " 

"  All  men  have  public  character  to  stake  ;  and  if  that  be 
good,  I  suppose  no  stake  can  be  better  ?  " 

"  Humph  ! — yes — very  true  ;  but  still,  when  a  man  has  land 
and  money,  his  opinions,  in  a  country  like   this,  very   properly 


l66  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYStEklEg. 

carry  more  weight  with  tliem.  If  Vargrave,  for  instance,  had 
Lord  Raby's  property,  no  man  could  be  more  fit  for  a  leader — 
a  prime  minister.  We  might  then  be  sure  that  he  would  have 
no  selfish  interest  to  further  ;  he  would  not  play  tricks  with 
his  party — you  understand  ?  " 

"Perfectly." 

"  I  am  not  a  party  man,  as  you  may  remember  ;  indeed,  you 
and  I  have  voted  alike  on  the  same  questions.  Measures,  not 
men — that  is  my  maxim  ;  but  still  I  don't  like  to  see  men 
placed  above  their  proper  stations." 

"  Maltravers — a  glass  of  wine,"  said  Lord  Vargrave  across 
the  table.     "  Will  you  join  us,  Sir  John  ? " 

Sir  John  bowed. 

*'  Certainly,"  he  resumed,  "  Vargrave  is  a  pleasant  man  and 
a  good  speaker ;  but  still  they  say  he  is  so  far  from  rich — em- 
barrassed, indeed.  However,  when  he  marries  Miss  Cameron 
it  may  make  a  great  difference — give  him  more  respectability  ; 
do  you  know  what  her  fortune  is — something  immense.?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  believe  so — I  don't  know." 

"  My  brother  says  that  Vargrave  is  most  amiable.  The  young 
lady  is  very  handsome,  almost  too  handsome  for  a  wife — don't 
you  think  so  ?  Beauties  are  very  well  in  a  ball-room  ;  but  they 
are  not  calculated  for  domestic  life.  I  am  sure  you  agree  with 
me.  I  have  heard,  indeed,  that  Miss  Cameron  is  rather  learned  ; 
but  there  is  so  much  scandal  in  a  country  neighborhood, — 
people  are  so  ill-natured.  I  dare  say  she  is  not  more 
learned  than  other  young  ladies,  poor  girl !  What  do  you 
think  ? " 

"Miss  Cameron  is — is  very  accomplished,  I  believe.  And 
so  you  think  the  Government  cannot  stand?" 

"  I  don't  say  that — very  far  from  it  :  but  I  fear  there  must 
be  a  change.  However,  if  the  country  gentlemen  hold  together, 
I  do  not  doubt  but  what  we  shall  weather  the  storm.  The 
landed  interest,  Mr.  Maltravers,  is  the  great  stay  of  this  country — 
the  sheet-anchor,  I  may  say.  I  suppose  Lord  Vargrave,  who 
seems,  I  must  say,  to  have  right  notions  on  this  head,  will  in- 
vest Miss  Cameron's  fortune  in  land.  But  though  one  may  buy 
an  estate,  one  can't  buy  an  old  family,  Mr.  Maltravers  ! — you 
and  I  may  be  thankful  for  that.  By  the  way,  who  was  Miss 
Cameron's  mother,  Lady  Vargrave  ! — something  low,  I  fear — 
nobody  knows." 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  Lady  Vargrave  ;  your  sister-in- 
law  speaks  of  her  most  highly.  And  the  daughter  in  herself  is 
a  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  virtues  of  the  mother." 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  167 

"  Yes;  and  Vargrave  on  one  side,  at  least,  has  himself  nothing 
in  the  way  of  family  to  boast  of." 

The  ladies  left  the  hall — the  gentlemen  re-seated  themselves. 
Lord  Raby  made  some  remark  on  politics  to  Sir  John  Merton, 
and  the  whole  round  of  talkers  immediately  followed  their  leader. 

**  It  is  a  thousand  pities,  Sir  John,"  said  Lord  Raby,  *'  that 
you  have  not  a  colleague  more  worthy  of  you;  Nelthorpe  never 
attends  a  committee,  does  he?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  he  is  a  very  active  member;  but  he  is 
young,  and  we  must  make  allowances  for  him,"  said  Sir  John 
discreetly:  for  he  had  no  desire  to  oust  his  colleague — it  was 
agreeable  enough  to  be  the  efficient  member. 

"  In  these  times,"  said  Lord  Raby  loftily,  "  allowances  are 
not  to  be  made  for  systematic  neglect  of  duty;  we  shall  have  a 
stormy  session — the  opposition  is  no  longer  to  be  despised — 
perhaps  a  dissolution  may  be  nearer  at  hand  than  we  think 
for: — as  for  Nelthorpe,  he  cannot  come  in  again." 

"  That  I  am  quite  sure  of,"  said  a  fat  country  gentleman  of 
great  weight  in  the  county;  "he  not  only  was  absent  on  the 
great  Malt  question,  but  he  never  answered  my  letter  respect' 
ing  the  Canal  Company." 

"  Not  answered  your  letter! "  said  Lord  Raby,  lifting  up  his 
hands  and  eyes  in  amaze  and  horror.  *'  What  conduct ! — Ah, 
Mr.  Maltravers,  you  are  the  man  for  us  !  " 

"  Hear!  hear!  "  cried  the  fat  squire. 

"  Hear  !  "  echoed  Vargrave  ;  and  the  approving  sound  went 
round  the  table. 

Lord  Raby  rose. — "  Gentlemen,  fill  your  glasses  ; — a  health 
to  our  distinguished  neighbor  ! " 

The  company  applauded  ;  each  in  his  turn  smiled,  nodded, 
and  drank  to  Maltravers,  who,  though  taken  by  surprise,  saw  at 
once  the  course  to  pursue.  He  returned  thanks  simply  and 
shortly  ;  and,  without  pointedly  noticing  the  allusion  in  which 
Lord  Raby  had  indulged,  remarked  incidentally,  that  he  had 
retired,  certainly  for  some  years — perhaps  forever — frompoliti- 
Cvd  life. 

Vargrave  smiled  significantly  at  Lord  Raby,  and  hastened  to 
lead  the  conversation  into  party  discussion. — Wrapped  in  his 
proud  disdain  of  what  he  considered  the  contests  of  factions 
for  toys  and  shadows,  Maltravers  remained  silent;  and  the  party 
soon  broke  up,  and  adjourned  to  the  ball-room. 


l68  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Le  plus  grand  defaut  de  la  penetration  n'est  pasde  n'aller  point  jusqu'au 
but,  c'est  de  le  passer."* — La  Rochefoucauld. 

Evelyn  had  looked  forward  to  the  Ball  at  Knaresdean  with 
feelings  deeper  than  those  which  usually  inflame  the  fancy  of  a 
girl,  proud  of  her  dress,  and  confident  of  her  beauty.  Whether 
or  not  she  loved  Maltravers,  in  the  true  acceptation  of  tlic  word 
love^  it  is  certain  that  he  had  acquired  a  most  powerful  command 
over  her  mind  and  imagination.  She  felt  the  warmest  interest 
in  his  welfare — the  most  anxious  desire  for  his  esteem — the 
deepest  regret  at  the  thought  of  their  estrangement.  At  Knares- 
dean she  should  meet  Maltravers — in  crowds,  it  is  true — but 
still  she  should  meet  him  ;  she  should  see  him  towering  superior 
above  the  herd  ;  she  should  hear  him  praised  ;  she  should  mark 
him,  the  observed  of  all.  But  there  was  another,  and  a  deeper 
source  of  joy  within  her.  A  letter  had  been  that  morning  re- 
ceived from  Aubrey,  in  which  he  had  announced  his  arrival  for 
the  next  day.  Theletter,  though  affectionate,  was  short.  Evelyn 
had  been  some  months  absent — Lady  Vargrave  was  anxious  to 
make  arrangements  for  her  return;  but  it  was  to  be  at  her  option 
whether  she  would  accompany  the  curate  home.  Now,  besides 
her  delight  at  seeing  once  more  the  dear  old  man,  and  hearing 
from  his  lips  that  her  mother  was  well  and  happy,  Evelyn 
hailed  in  his  arrival  the  means  of  extricating  herself  from  her 
position  with  Lord  Vargrave.  She  would  confide  in  him  her 
increased  repugnance  to  that  union — he  would  confer  with  Lord 
Vargrave  ;  and  then — and  then — did  there  come  once  more  the 
thought  of  Maltravers  ?  No! — I  fear  it  was  not  Maltravers  who 
called  forth  that  smile  and  that  sigh! — Strange  girl,  you  know 
not  your  own  mind  ; — but  few  of  us,  at  your  age,  do! 

In  all  the  gayety  of  hope,  in  the  pride  of  dress  and  half-con- 
scious loveliness,  Evelyn  went  with  a  light  step  into  Caroline's 
room.  Miss  Merton  had  already  dismissed  her  woman,  and 
was  seated  by  her  writing-table,  leaning  her  cheek  thoughtfully 
on  her  hand. 

"  Is  it  time  to  go  ?  "  said  she,  looking  up.  "  Well — we  shall 
put  papa,  and  the  coachman,  and  the  horses,  too,  in  excellent 
humor.  How  well  you  look  !  Really,  Evelyn,  you  are  indeed 
beautiful  !  " — and  Caroline  gazed  with  honest,  but  not  unenvi- 
ous  admiration  at  the  fairy  form  so  rounded,  and  yet  so  delicate; 
and  the  face  that  seemed  to  blush  at  its  own  charms. 

*  The  greatest  defect  of  penetration  is  not  that  of  not  going  just  up  to  the  point — it  is 
the  passing  it. 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  169 

"  I  am  sure  I  can  return  the  flattery,"  said  Evelyn,  laughing 
bashfully. 

"  Oh!  as  for  me,  I  am  well  enough  in  my  way:  and  hereafter 
I  dare  say  we  may  be  rival  beauties.  I  hope  we  shall  remain 
good  friends,  and  rule  the  world  with  divided  empire.  Do  you 
not  long  for  the  stir,  and  excitement,  and  ambition  of  Lon- 
don ? — for  ambition  is  open  to  us  as  to  men  !  " 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Evelyn,  smiling:  "I  could  be 
ambitious,  indeed  ;  but  it  would  not  be  for  myself,  but  for — " 

"A  husband,  perhaps  ;  well,  you  will  have  ample  scope  for 
such  sympathy.     Lord  Vargrave — " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  again  ! "  and  Evelyn's  smile  vanished,  and 
she  turned  away. 

"  Ah,"  said  Caroline,  "  I  should  have  made  Vargrave  an  ex- 
cellent wife — pity  he  does  not  think  so !  As  it  is,  I  must  set 
up  for  myself,  and  become  a  maiiresse  femme. — So  you  think  I 
look  well  to-night  ?  I  am  glad  of  it. — Lord  Doltimore  is  one 
who  will  be  guided  by  what  other  people  say." 

"  You  are  not  serious  about  Lord  Doltimore  ?" 

"Most  sadly  serious." 

"Impossible  !  you  could  not  speak  so  if  you  loved  him." 

"  Loved  him  !  no  !  but  I  intend  to  marry  him." 

Evelyn  was  revolted,  but  still  incredulous. 

"  And  you,  too,  will  marry  one  whom  you  do  not  love  1 — 'tis 
our  fate — " 

"  Never ! " 

"  We  shall  see." 

Evelyn's  heart  was  damped,  and  her  spirits  fell. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  said  Caroline,  pressing  on  the  wrung  withers — 
"do  you  not  think  this  excitement,  partial  and  provincial 
though  it  be — the  sense  of  beauty,  the  hope  of  conquest,  the 
consciousness  of  power — better  than  the  dull  monotony  of  the 
Devonshire  cottage  ?  be  honest — " 

"  No,  no,  indeed !  "  answered  Evelyn,  tearfully  and  passion- 
ately ;  "one  hour  with  my  mother,  one  smile  from  her  lips,  were 
worth  it  all  !  " 

"And  in  your  visions  of  marriage,  you  think  then  of  nothing 
but  roses  and  doves, — love  in  a  cottage  !  " 

"Love  in  a  hojne,  no  matter  whether  a  palace  or  a  cottage," 
returned  Evelyn. 

"  Home  !  "repeated  Caroline, bitterly ; — "home — home  is  the 
English  synonym  for  the  French  ennui.  But  I  hear  papa  on 
^he  stairs," 


170  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

A  ball-room — what  a  scene  of  commonplace  !  how  hack- 
neyed  in  novels  ;  how  trite  in  ordinary  life  ;  and  yet  ball-rooms 
have  a  character  and  a  sentiment  of  their  own,  for  all  tempers 
and  all  ages.  Something  in  the  lights — the  crowd — the  music — 
conduces  to  stir  up  many  of  the  thoughts  that  belong  to  fancy 
and  romance.  It  is  a  melancholy  scene  to  men  after  a  certain 
age.  It  revives  many  of  those  lighter  and  more  graceful  images 
connected  with  the  wandering  desires  of  youth  ;  shadows  that 
crossed  us,  and  seemed  love,  but  were  not,  having  much  of  the 
grace  and  charnn,  but  none  of  the  passion  and  the  tragedy,  of 
love.  So  many  of  our  earliest  and  gentlest  recollections  are 
connected  with  those  chalked  floors — and  that  music  painfully 
gay — and  those  quiet  nooks  and  corners,  where  the  talk  that 
hovers  about  the  heart  and  does  not  touch  it  has  been  held. 
Apart  and  unsympaihizing  in  thatausterer  wisdom  which  comes 
to  us  after  deep  passions  have  been  excited,  we  see  form  after 
form  chasing  the  butterflies  that  dazzle  us  no  longer  among  the 
flowers  that  have  evermore  lost  their  fragrance. 

Somehow  or  other,  it  is  one  of  the  scenes  that  remind  us 
most  forcibly  of  the  loss  of  youth  !  We  are  brought  so  closely 
in  contact  with  the  young  and  with  the  short-lived  pleasures 
that  once  pleased  us,  and  have  forfeited  all  bloom.  Happy  the 
man  who  turns  from  "  the  tinkling  cymbal,"  and  "  the  gallery 
of  pictures,"  and  can  think  of  some  watchful  eye  and  some  kind 
heart  at  home.  But  those  who  have  no  home — and  they  are  a 
numerous  tribe — never  feel  lonelierhermits  or  sadder  moralists, 
than  in  such  a  crowd. 

Maltravers  leaned  abstractedly  against  the  wall,  and  some 
such  reflections  perhaps  passed  within,  as  the  plumes  waved 
and  the  diamonds  glittered  round  him.  Ever  too  proud  to  be 
vain,  the  fnonstrari  digito  had  not  flattered  even  in  the  com- 
mencement of  his  career.  And  now  he  heeded  not  the  eyes  that 
sought  his  look,  nor  the  admiring  murmur  of  lips  anxious  to  be 
overheard.  Affluent,  well-born,  unmarried,  and  still  in  the 
prime  of  life, — in  the  small  circles  of  a  province,  Ernest  Mal- 
travers would  in  hims.elf  have  been  an  object  of  interest  to  the 
diplomacy  of  mothers  and  daughters;  and  the  false  glare  of  rep- 
utation necessarily  deepened  curiosity,  and  widened  the  range 
of  speculators  and  observers. 

Suddenly,  however,  a  new  object  of  attention  excited  new  in- 
terest— new  whispers  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  these  awakened 
Maltravers  from  his  revery.  He  looked  up,  and  beheld  all  eyes 
fixed  upon  one  form !  His  own  eyes  encountered  tho§e  pf 
Evelyn  Cameron  \ 


ALICE;    OR,  t HE   MYSTERIES.  t;! 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  this  beautiful  young  person 
in  all  the  dclat,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  her  station,  as  the 
heiress  of  the  opulent  Templeton — the  first  time  he  had  seen 
her  the  cynosure  of  crowds — who,  had  her  features  been  homely, 
would  have  admired  the  charms  of  her  fortune  in  her  face. 
And  now,  as  radiant  with  youth,  and  the  flush  of  excitement 
on  her  soft  cheek,  she  met  his  eye,he  said  to  himself  :  "  And  could 
I  have  wished  one  so  new  to  the  world  to  have  united  her  lot 
with  a  man  for  whom  all  that  to  her  is  delight  is  grown  weari- 
some and  stale  ?  Could  I  have  been  justified  in  stealing  her 
from  the  admiration  that,  at  her  age,  and  to  her  sex,  has  so 
sweet  a  flattery !  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  could  I  have  gone  back  to 
her  years,  and  sympathized  with  feelings  that  time  has  taught 
me  to  despise? — Better  as  it  is." 

Influenced  by  these  thoughts,  the  greeting  of  Maltravers  dis- 
appointed and  saddened  Evelyn,  she  knew  not  why ;  it  was  con- 
strained and  grave. 

"Does  not  Miss  Cameron  look  well?"  whispered  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton,  on  whose  arm  the  heiress  leant.  "You  observe  what  a 
sensation  she  creates?" 

Evelyn  overheard,  and  blushed  as  she  stole  a  glance  at  Mal- 
travers. There  was  something  mournful  in  the  admiration  which 
spoke  in  his  deep,  earnest  eyes. 

"  Everywhere,"  said  he  calmly,  and  in  the  same  tone, "  every- 
where Miss  Cameron  appears,  she  must  outshine  all  others." 
He  turned  to  Evelyn,  and  said  with  a  smile,  "You  must  learn 
to  enure  yourself  to  admiration — a  year  or  two  hence,  and  you 
will  not  blush  at  your  own  gifts !  " 

"  And  you,  too,  contribute  to  spoil  me  ! — fie  !  " 

"Are  you  so  easily  spoiled  ?  If  I  meet  you  hereafter,  you  will 
think  my  compliments  cold  to  the  common  language  of  others." 

"You  do  not  know  me — perhaps  you  never  will." 

"  I  am  contented  with  the  fair  pages  I  have  already  read." 

"Where  is  Lady  Raby?"  asked  Mrs.  Merton.  "Oh,  I  see  ; 
Evelyn,  my  love,  we  must  present  ourselves  to  our  hostess." 

The  ladies  moved  on — and  when  Maltravers  next  caught  a 
glance  of  Evelyn,  she  was  with  Lady  Raby,  and  Lord  Vargrave 
also  was  by  her  side. 

The  whispers  round  him  had  grown  louder. 

"  Very  lovely  indeed  ! — so  young,  too  ! — and  she  is  really 
going  to  be  married  to  Lord  Vargrave  :  so  much  older  than  she 
is — quite  a  sacrifice  !  " 

"  Scarcely  so.  He  is  so  agreeable,  and  still  handsome.  But 
are  you  sure  that  the  thing  is  settled?" 


f^i  ALICE;    Ok,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Lord  Raby  himself  told  me  so.  It  will  take  place 
very  soon." 

"  But  do  you  know  who  her  mother  was? — I  cannot  make  out." 

"  Nothing  particular.  You  know  the  late  Lord  Vargrave 
was  a  man  of  low  birth.  I  believe  she  was  a  widow  of  his  own 
rank — she  lives  quite  in  seclusion." 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Maltravers  2  So  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
the  quick,  shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Hare.  "  Beautiful  ball — nobody 
does  things  like  Lord  Raby — don't  you  dance  ?  " 

*'  No,  madam." 

"Oh,  you  young  gentlemen  are  sojine  nowadays."  (Mrs.  Hare, 
laying  stress  on  the  word  young,  thought  she  had  paid  a  very 
elegant  compliment,  and  ran  on  with  increased  complacency.) 

"  You  are  going  to  let  Burleigli,  I  hear,  to  Lord  Doltimore — 
is  it  true  ? — No  ! — really  now,  what  stories  people  do  tell. 
Elegant  man,  Lord  Doltimore  !  Is  it  true,  that  Miss  Caroline 
is  going  to  marry  his  lordship? — Great  match  ! — No  scandal,  I 
hope  ;  you'll  excuse  me ! — Two  weddings  on  the  tapis — quite 
stirring  for  our  stupid  county.  Lady  Vargrave  and  Lady  Dolti- 
more, two  new  peeresses.  Which  do  you  think  is  the  hand- 
somer?— Miss  Merlonis  the  taller, but  there  is  something  fierce 
in  her  eyes.  Don't  you  think  so  ? — By  the  by,  I  wish  you  joy — 
you'll  excuse  me." 

"  Wish  me  joy,  madam  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  close.  Mr.  Hare  says  he  shall  support  you. 
You  will  have  all  the  ladies  with  you.  Well,  I  declare,  Lord 
Vargrave  is  going  to  dance.     How  old  is  he,  do  you  tliink  ? " 

Maltravers  uttered  an  audible  pshaw,  and  moved  away ; 
but  his  penance  was  not  over.  Lord  Vargrave,  much  as  he  dis- 
liked dancing,  still  thought  it  wise  to  ask  the  fair  hand  of  Evelyn  ; 
and  Evleyn,  also,  could  not  refuse. 

And  now,  as  the  crowd  gathered  round  the  red  ropes,  Mal- 
travers had  to  undergo  new  exclamations  at  Evelyn's  beauty 
and  Vargrave's  luck.  Impatiently  he  turned  from  the  spot, 
with  that  gnawing  sickness  of  the  heart  which  none  but  the 
jealous  know.  He  longed  to  depart,  yet  dreaded  to  do  so.  It 
was  the  last  time  he  should  see  Evelyn,  perhaps  for  years — the 
last  time  he  should  see  her  as  Miss  Cameron  ! 

He  passed  into  another  room,  deserted  by  all  save  four  old 
gentlemen — Cleveland  one  of  them — immersed  in  whist ;  and 
threw  himself  upon  an  ottoman,  placed  in  a  recess  by  the  oriel 
window.  There,  half-concealed  by  the  draperies,  he  communed 
and  reasoned  with  himself.  His  heart  was  sad  within  him  ;  he 
never  felt  before  tiow  deeply  and  hmv  passionately  he  loved 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  I73 

Evelyn — how  firmly  that  love  had  fastened  upon  the  very  core 
of  his  heart !  Strange,  indeed,  it  was  in  a  girl  so  young — of 
whom  he  had  seen  but  little — and  that  little  in  positions  of 
such  quiet  and  ordinary  interest — to  excite  a  passion  so  intense 
in  a  man  who  had  gone  through  strong  emotions  and  stern  trials  ! 
But  all  love  is  unaccountable.  The  solitude  in  which  Maltravers 
had  lived — the  absence  of  all  other  excitement — perhaps  had 
contributed  largely  to  fan  the  flame.  And  his  affections  had 
so  long  slept  ;  and  after  long  sleep  the  passions  wake  with  such 
giant  strength  !  He  felt  now  too  well  that  the  last  rose  of  life 
had  bloomed  for  him — it  was  blighted  in  its  birth,  but  it  could 
never  be  replaced.  Henceforth,  indeed,  he  should  be  alone — the 
hopes  of  home  were  gone  for  ever  ;  and  the  other  occupations 
of  mind  and  soul — literature,  pleasure,  ambition — were  already 
forsworn  at  the  very  age  in  which  by  most  men  they  are  most 
indulged  !  O  Youth  !  begin  not  thy  career  too  soon,  and  let 
one  passion  succeed  in  its  due  order  to  another ;  so  that  every 
season  of  life  may  have  its  appropriate  pursuit  and  charm  ! 

The  hours  waned — still  Maltravers  stirred  not  ;  nor  were  his 
meditations  disturbed,  except  by  occasional  ejaculations  from 
the  four  old  gentlemen,  as  between  each  deal  they  moralized 
over  the  caprices  of  the  cards. 

At  length,  close  beside  him  he  heard  that  voice,  the  lightest 
sound  of  which  could  send  the  blood  rushing  through  his  veins  ; 
and  from  his  retreat  he  saw  Caroline  and  Evelyn,  seated  close  by. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  former,  in  a  low  voice — "  I  beg 
pardon,  Evelyn,  for  calling  you  away — but  I  longed  to  tell  you. 
The  die  is  cast. — Lord  Doltimore  has  proposed,  and  I  have 
accepted  him  ! — Alas,  alas  !     I  half  wish  I  could  retract !  " 

"  Dearest  Caroline  !  "  said  the  silver  voice  of  Evelyn  ;  "  for 
Heaven's  sake,  do  not  thus  wantonly  resolve  on  your  own  un- 
happiness  !  You  wrong  yourself,  Caroline  ! — you  do,  indeed  ! 
— You  are  not  the  vain,  ambitious  character  you  affect  to  be  ! 
Ah  !  what  is  it  you  require — wealth? — are  you  not  my  friend? 
— am  I  not  rich  enough  for  both  ? — rank  ? — what  can  it  give 
you  to  compensate  for  the  misery  of  an  union  without  love? — 
Pray  forgive  me  for  speaking  thus  ;  do  not  think  me  presump- 
tuous, or  romantic — but  indeed,  I  know  from  my  own  heart 
what  yours  must  undergo  !" 

Caroline  pressed  her  friend's  hand  A\ith  emotion, 

"You  are  a  bad  comforter,  Evelyn  ; — my  mother — my  father, 
will  preach  a  very  different  doctrine.  I  am  foolish,  indeed,  to 
be  so  sad  in  obtaining  the  very  object  I  have  sought  !  Poor 
Doltimore  ! — he   little   knows   the   nature,   the  feeUngs  of  her 


174  ALldfiJ    Oft,  Tllfi   MYSTEftlfiS. 

wliom  he  thinks  he  has  made  the  happiest  of  her  sex — he  little 
knows  " — Caroline  paused,  turned  pale  as  death,  and  then  went 
rapidly  on — *'  But  you,  Evelyn,  you  will  meet  the  same  fate;  we 
shall  bear  it  together. ' 

"  No  ! — no  I — do  not  think  so  !  Where  I  give  my  hand,  there 
shall  I  give  my  heart." 

At  this  time  Maltravers  half  rose,  and  sighed  audibly. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Caroline,  in  alarm.  At  the  same  moment, 
the  whist-table  brokeup,  and  Cleveland  approached  Maltravers. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  he  ;  "  I  know  you  will  not  stay 
the  supper.  You  will  find  me  in  the  next  room  ;  I  am  just 
going  to  speak  to  Lord  Saxingham."  The  gallant  old  gentle- 
man then  paid  a  compliment  to  the  young  ladies,  and  walked 
away. 

"  So  you  too  are  a  deserter  from  the  ball-room  !  "  said  Miss 
Merton  to  Maltravers  as  she  rose. 

"  I  am  not  very  well ;  but  do  not  let  me  frighten  you  away." 

"Oh,  no  !  I  hear  the  music — it  is  the  last  quadrille  before 
supper — and  here  is  my  fortunate  partner  looking  for  me." 

*'  I  have  been  everywhere  in  search  of  you,"  said  Lord  Dolti- 
more,  in  an  accent  of  tender  reproach  ;  "  come,  we  are  almost 
too  late  now." 

Caroline  put  her  arm  into  Lord  Doltimore's,  who  hurried  her 
into  the  ball-room. 

Miss  Cameron  looked  irresolute  whether  or  not  to  follow, 
when  Maltravers  seated  himself  beside  her  ;  and  the  paleness 
of  his  brow,  and  something  that  bespoke  pain  in  the  compressed 
lip — went  at  once  to  her  heart.  In  her  childlike  tenderness, 
she  would  have  given  worlds  for  the  sister's  privilege  of  sympathy 
and  soothing.     The  room  was  now  deserted — they  were  alone. 

The  words  that  he  had  overheard  from  Evelyn's  lips — "  Where 
I  shall  give  my  hand  there  shall  I  give  my  heart  " — Maltravers 
interpreted  but  in  one  sense — "  she  loved  her  betrothed  !  " — 
and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  at  that  thought  which  put  the 
last  seal  upon  his  fate,  selfish  anguish  was  less  felt  than  deep 
compassion.  So  young — so  courted — so  tempted  as  she  must 
be — and  with  such  a  protector  ! — the  cold,  the  unsympathizing, 
the  heartless  Vargrave  !  She,  too,  whose  feelings,  so  warm,  ever 
trembled  on  her  lip  and  eye — Oh  !  when  she  awoke  from  her 
dream,  and  knew  whom  she  had  loved,  what  might  be  her 
destiny — what  her  danger  ! 

*'  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Maltravers,  "  let  me  for  one  moment  de- 
tain you;  I  will  not  trespass  long.  May  I  once,  and  for  the  last 
time,  assume  the  austere  rights  of  friendship  ?    I  have  seen  much 


Alice;   or,  the  mysteries.  175 

of  life,  Miss  Cameron,  and  my  experience  has  been  purchased 
dearly  :  and,  harsh  and  hermit-like  as  I  may  have  grown,  I  have 
not  outlived  such  feelings  as  you  are  well  formed  to  excite. 
Nay, — (and  Maltravers  smiled  sadly) — "  I  am  not  about  to  com- 
pliment or  flatter — I  speak  not  to  you  as  the  young  to  the  young; 
the  difference  of  our  years,  tli at  takes  away  sweetness  from  flat- 
tery, leaves  still  sincerity  to  friendship.  You  have  inspired  me 
with  a  deep  interest, — deeper  than  I  thought  that  living  beauty 
could  ever  rouse  in  me  again !  It  may  be,  that  something  in 
tlie  tone  of  your  voice,  your  manner,  a  nameless  grace  that  I 
cannot  define — reminds  me  of  one  whom  I  knew  in  youth, — one 
who  had  not  your  advantages  of  education,  wealth,  birth  ;  but 
to  whom  Nature  was  more  kind  than  Fortune." 

He  paused  a  moment ;  and,  without  looking  towards  Evelyn, 
thus  renewed: 

"You  are  entering  life  under  brilliant  auspices. — Ah  !  let  me 
hope  that  the  noonday  will  keep  the  promise  of  the  dawn!  You 
are  susceptible — imaginative ;  do  not  demand  too  much,  or 
dream  too  fondly.  When  you  are  wedded,  do  not  imagine  that 
wedded  life  is  exempt  from  its  trials  and  its  cares:  if  you  know 
yourself  beloved — and  beloved  you  must  be — do  not  ask  from 
the  busy  and  anxious  spirit  of  man  all  which  Romance  promises 
and  Life  but  rarely  yields.  And  oh!"  continued  Maltravers, 
with  an  absorbing  and  earnest  passion,  that  poured  forth  its  lan- 
guage with  almost  breathless  rapidity, — "  if  ever  your  heart  re- 
bels— if  ever  it  be  dissatisfied — fly  the  false  sentiment  as  a  sin  ! 
Thrown,  as  from  your  rank  you  must  be,  on  a  world  of  a  thou- 
sand perils,  with  no  guide  so  constant,  and  so  safe,  as  your  own 
innocence — make  not  that  world  too  dear  a  friend !  Were  it  pos- 
sible that  your  own  home  ever  could  be  lonely  or  unhappy,  re- 
flect that  to  woman  the  unhappiest  home  is  happier  than  all  ex- 
citement abroad.  You  will  have  a  thousand  suitors,  hereafter: 
believe  that  the  asp  lurks  under  the  flatterer's  tongue,  and  re- 
solve, come  what  may,  to  be  contented  with  your  lot.  How 
many  have  1  known,  lovely  and  pure  as  you,  who  have  suffered 
the  very  affections — the  very  beauty  of  their  nature — to  destroy 
them  !  Listen  to  me  as  a  warner — as  a  brother — as  a  pilot  who 
has  passed  the  seas  on  which  your  vessel  is  about  to  launch. 
And  ever — ever  let  me  know,  in  whatever  lands  your  name  may 
reach  me,  that  one  who  has  brought  back  to  me  all  my  faith  in 
human  excellence,  while  the  idol  of  our  sex  is  the  glory  of  her 
own.  Forgive  me  this  strange  impertinence  ;  my  heart  is  full, 
and  has  overflowed.  And  now,  Miss  Cameron — Evelyn  Cam- 
eron— this  is  my  last  offence,  and  my  last  fa^-ewdl  I " 


l-jS  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  involuntarily,  unknowingly,  she 
clasped  it,  as  if  to  detain  him  till  she  could  summon  words  to 
reply.  Suddenly  he  heard  Lord  Vargrave's  voice  behind — the 
spell  was  broken — the  next  moment  Evelyn  was  alone,  and  the 
throng  swept  into  the  room  towards  the  banquet,  and  laughter  and 
gay  voices  were  heard — and  Lord  Vargrave  was  again  by  Eve- 
lyn's side ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

.     .    .     ."To  you 
This  journey  is  devoted." 

Lover's  Progress,  Act  iv.  Scene  I. 

As  Cleveland  and  Maltravers  returned  homeward,  the  latter 
abruptly  checked  the  cheerful  garrulity  of  his  friend.  "  I  have 
a  favor — a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"And  what  is  that  ?" 

"  Let  us  leave  Burleigh  to-morrow  ;  I  care  not  at  what  hour; 
we  need  go  but  two  or  three  stages  if  you  are  fatigued." 

"Most  hospitable  host  !  and  why?" 

"  It  is  torture,  it  is  agony  to  me,  to  breathe  the  air  of  Bur- 
leigh," cried  Maltravers  wildly.  "Can  you  not  guess  my  se- 
cret ?  Have  I  then  concealed  it  so  well  ?  I  love,  1  adore  Eve- 
lyn Cameron,  and  she  is  betrothed  to — she  loves — another  ! " 

Mr.  Cleveland  was  breathless  with  amaze  ;  Maltravers  had 
indeed  so  well  concealed  his  secret ;  and  now  his  emotion  was 
so  impetuous,  that  it  startled  and  alarmed  the  old  man,  who  had 
never  himself  experienced  a  passion,  though  he  had  indulged  a 
sentiment.  He  sought  to  console  and  soothe ;  but  after  the 
first  burst  of  agony,  Maltravers  recovered  himself  and  said 
gently : 

"  Let  us  never  return  to  this  subject  again:  it  is  right  that  I 
should  conquer  this  madness,  and  conquer  it  I  will !  Now  you 
know  my  weakness,  you  will  indulge  it.  My  cure  cannot  com- 
mence, until  I  can  no  longer  see  from  my  casements  the  very 
roof  that  shelters  the  affianced  bride  of  another." 

"Certainly,  then,  we  will  set  off  to-morrow:  my  poor  friend! 
is  it  indeed — " 

"Ah,  cease,"  interrupted  the  proud  man;  "no  compassion 
I  implore  !  give  me  but  time  and  silence — they  are  the  only 
remedies." 

Before  noon  the  next  day,  Burleigh  was  once  more  deserted 
by  its  lord.    As  th?  carriage  4rpv?  through  th?  village,  Mrs, 


ALICE  ;     OK,   THE    MYSTERIES.  I77 

Elton  saw  it  from  her  open  window.  But  her  patron,  too  ab- 
sorbed at  that  hour,  even  for  benevolence,  forgot  her  existence: 
and  yet  so  complicated  are  tlie  webs  of  fate,  that  in  the  breast 
of  that  lowly  stranger  was  locked  a  secret  of  the  most  vital  mo- 
ment to  Maltravers. 

"Where  is  he  going?  where  is  the  squire  going?"  asked  Mrs. 
Elton  anxiously. 

"Dear  heart!"  said  the  cottager,  "they  do  say  he  be  going 
for  a  short  time  to  foren  parts.  But  he  will  be  back  at  Christ- 
mas." 

"  And  at  Christmas  I  may  be  gone  hence  for  ever,"  muttered 
the  invalid.     "But  what  will  that  matter  to  him — to  any  one! " 

At  the  first  stage  Maltravers  and  his  friend  were  detained  a 
short  time  for  the  want  of  horses.  Lord  Raby's  house  had  been 
filled  with  guests  on  the  preceding  night,  and  the  stables  of 
this  little  inn,  dignified  with  the  sign  of  the  Raby  Arms,  and 
about  two  miles  distant  from  the  great  man's  place,  had  been 
exhausted  by  numerous  claimants  returning  homeward  from 
Knaresdean.  It  was  a  quiet,  solitary  post-house,  and  patience, 
till  some  jaded  horses  should  return,  was  the  only  remedy  ;  ih& 
host,  assuring  the  travellers  that  he  expected  four  horses  every 
moment,  invited  them  within.  The  morning  was  cold,  and  the 
fire  not  unacceptable  to  Mr.  Cleveland  ;  so  they  went  into  the 
little  parlor.  Here  they  found  an  elderly  gentleman  of  very 
prepossessing  appearance,  who  was  waiting  for  the  same  object. 
He  moved  courteously  from  the  fireplace  as  the  travellers  en- 
tered and  pushed  the  J^ s/n're  Chronicle  towards  Cleveland  ; 

Cleveland  bowed  urbanely.  "  A  cold  day,  sir  ;  the  autumn  be- 
gins to  show  itself." 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  answered  the  old  gentleman  ;  "and  I  feel 
the  cold  the  more,  having  just  quitted  the  genial  atmosphere  of 
the  south." 

"  Of  Italy  ?  " 

"  No,  of  England  only.  I  see  by  this  paper  (I  am  not  much 
of  a  politician)  that  there  is  a  chance  of  a  dissolution  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  that  Mr.  Maltravers  is  likely  to  come  forward  for 
this  county;  are  you  acquainted  with  him,  sir  ?" 

"A  little,"  said  Cleveland,  smiling. 

"  He  is  a  man  I  am  much  interested  in,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man; "  and  I  hope  soon  to  be  honored  with  his  acquaintance." 

"  Indeed!  and  you  are  going  into  his  neighborhood  ?  "  asked 
Cleveland,  looking  more  attentively  at  the  stranger,  and  much 
pleased  with  ^  Certain  simple  candor  in  his  countenance  and 
manner, 


lyS  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"Yes,  to  Merton  Rectory." 

Maltravers,  who  had  been  hitherto  stationed  by  the  window, 
turned  round, 

"  To  Merton  Rectory  ? "  repeated  Cleveland.  "  You  are  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Merton,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  yet;  but  I  know  some  of  his  family.  However,  my 
visit  is  rather  to  a  young  lady  who  is  staying  at  the  rectory — 
Miss  Cameron." 

Maltravers  sighed  heavily;  and  the  old  gentleman  looked  at 
him  curiously.  "  Perhaps,  sir,  if  you  know  that  neighborhood, 
you  may  have  seen — " 

"  Miss  Cameron  !  Certainly,  it  is  an  honor  not  easily  for- 
gotten." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  pleased. 

"  The  dear  child,"  said  he,  with  a  burst  of  honest  aflfection — 
and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  Maltravers  drew  near 
to  him. 

"  You  know  Miss  Cameron;  you  are  to  be  envied  sir,"  said  he. 

**  I  have  known  her  since  she  was  a  child — Ladj  Vargrave  is 
my  dearest  friend." 

"  Lady  Vargrave  must  be  worthy  of  such  a  daughter.  Only 
under  the  light  of  a  sweet  disposition  and  pure  heart  could  that 
beautiful  nature  have  been  trained  and  reared." 

Maltravers  spoke  with  enthusiasm;  and,  as  if  fearful  to  trust 
himself  more,  left  the  room. 

"  That  gentleman  speaks  not  more  warmly  than  justly,"  said 
the  old  man  with  some  surprise.  "  He  has  a  countenance  which, 
if  physiognomy  be  a  true  science,  declares  his  praise  to  be  no 
common  compliment — may  I  inquire  his  name?" 

'*  Maltravers,"  replied  Cleveland,  a  little  vain  of  tlie  effect 
his  ex-pupil's  name  was  to  produce. 

The  curate — for  it  was  he — started  and  changed  counte- 
nance. 

"  Maltravers:  but  he  is  not  about  to  leave  the  county  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  few  months." 

Here  the  host  entered.  Four  horses,  that  had  been  only 
fourteen  miles,  had  just  re-entered  the  yard.  If  Mr.  Mal- 
travers could  spare  two  to  that  gentleman,  who  had,  indeed, 
pre-engaged  them  ? 

"Certainly,"  said  Cleveland;  "but  be  quick." 

"  And  is  Lord  Vargrave  still  at  Mr.  Merton's  ? "  asked  the 
curate,  musingly. 

"  Oh,  yes — I  believe  so.  Miss  Cameron  is  to  be  married  to 
him  very  shortly — jg  it  not  so  ? " 


ALICE  ;     OR,   THE    MYSTERIES.  1 79 

"  I  cannot  say,"  returned  Aubrey,  rather  bewildered.  "You 
know  Lord  Vargrave,  sir  ?  " 

"  Extremely  well  !  " 

"  And  you  think  him  worthy  of  Miss  Cameron  ? " 

"  That  is  a  question  for  her  to  answer.  But  I  see  the  horses 
are  put  to.  Good-day,  sir!  Will  you  tell  your  fair  young  friend 
that  you  have  met  an  old  gentleman  who  wishes  her  all  happi- 
ness; and  if  she  asks  you  his  name,  say  Cleveland  !  " 

So  saying,  Mr.  Cleveland  bowed,  and  re-entered  the  carriage. 
But  Maltravers  was  yet  missing.  In  fact,  he  returned  to  the 
house  by  the  back  way,  and  went  once  more  into  the  little  par- 
lor. It  was  something  to  see  again  one  who  would  so  soon  see 
Evelyn! 

"  If  I  mistake  not,"  said  Maltravers,  "  you  are  that  Mr. 
Aubrey  on  whose  virtues  I  have  often  heard  Miss  Cameron  de- 
light  to  linger  ?  Will  you  believe  my  regret  that  our  acquaint' 
ance  is  now  so  brief  ?  " 

As  Maltravers  spoke  thus  simply,  there  was  in  his  counte- 
nance— his  voice — a  melancholy  sweetness,  which  greatly  con- 
ciliated the  good  curate.  And  as  Aubrey  gazed  upon  his  noble 
features  and  lofty  mien,  he  no  longer  wondered  at  the  fascina- 
tion he  had  appeared  to  exercise  over  the  young  Evelyn. 

"  And  may  I  not  hope,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  he,  "  that  be- 
fore long  our  acquaintance  may  be  renewed  ?  Could  not  Miss 
Cameron,"  he  added,  with  a  smile  and  a  penetrating  look, 
"  tempt  you  into  Devonshire  ?  " 

Maltravers  shook  his  head,  and,  muttering  something  not 
very  audible,  quitted  the  room.  The  curate  heard  the  whirl  of 
the  wheels,  and  the  host  entered  to  inform  him  that  his  own  car- 
riage was  now  ready. 

"  There  is  something  in  this,"  thought  Aubrey,  "  which  I  do 
not  comprehend.  His  manner — his  trembling  voice — bespoke 
emotions  he  struggled  to  conceal.  Can  Lord  Vargrave  have 
gained  his  point  ?    Is  Evelyn,  indeed,  no  longer  free  ?  " 


l8o  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES, 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Certes,  c'est  un  grand  cas,  leas, 
Que  toujours  tracas  ou  fracas 
Vous  faites  d'une  ou  d'autre  sort ; 
C'est  le  diable  qui  vous  e^jporte  !  "  * — ^VoiTURE. 

Lord  Vargrave  had  passed  the  night  of  the  ball  and  the  fol- 
lowing morning  at  Knaresdean.  It  was  necessary  to  bring  the 
councils  of  the  scheming  conclave  to  a  full  and  definite  conclu- 
sion ;  and  this  was  at  last  effected.  Their  strength  numbered — • 
friends  and  foes  alike  canvassed  and  considered — and  due  ac- 
count taken  of  the  waverers  to  be  won  over,  it  really  did  seem, 
even  to  the  least  sanguine,  that  the  Saxingham,  or  Vargrave 
parly,  was  one  that  might  well  aspire  either  to  dictate  to,  or  to 
break  up,  a  government.  Nothing  now  was  left  to  consider  but 
the  favorable  hour  for  action.  In  high  spirits,  Lord  Vargrave 
returned  about  the  middle  of  the  day  to  the  rectory. 

"  So,"  thought  he,  as  he  reclined  in  his  carriage — **  so,  in  poli- 
tics, the  prospect  clears  as  the  sun  breaks  out.  The  party  I  have 
espoused  is  one  that  must  be  the  most  durable,  for  it  possesses 
the  greatest  property  and  the  most  stubborn  prejudice — what 
elements  for  Party  !  All  that  I  now  require  is  a  sufificicnt  for- 
tune to  back  my  ambition.  Nothing  can  clog  my  way  but  these 
cursed  debts — this  disreputable  want  of  gold.  And  yet  Evelyn 
alarms  me  !  Were  I  younger — or  had  I  not  made  my  position 
too  soon — I  would  marry  her  by  fraud  or  by  force  ;  run  off  with 
her  to  Gretna,  and  make  Vulcan  minister  to  Plutus.  But  this 
Avould  never  do  at  my  years,  and  with  my  reputation.  A  pretty 
story  for  the  newspapers! — d — n  them!  Well,  nothing  ven- 
ture, nothing  have  ;  I  will  brave  the  hazard.  Meanwhile,  Dol- 
timore  is  mine;  Caroline  will  rule  him,  and  I  rule  her.  His  vote 
and  his  boroughs  are  something — his  money  will  be  more  imme- 
diately useful :  I  must  do  him  the  honor  to  borrow  a  few  thou- 
sands— Caroline  must  manage  that  for  me.  The  fool  is  miserly, 
th»ugh  a  spendthrift ;  and  looked  black  when  I  delicately  hinted, 
tlie  other  day,  that  I  wanted  a  friend — id  est,  a  loan.  Money 
and  friendship  same  thing — distinction  without  a  difference  !  " 
Thus  cogitating,  Vargrave  whiled  away  the  minutes  till  his  car- 
riage stopped  at  Mr.  Merton's  door. 

As  he  entered  the  hall  he  met  Caroline,  who  had  just  quitted 
her  own  room. 

*  Certes,  it  is  the  fact,  leas,  that  you  are  always  engaged  in  tricks  or  scrapes  of  some 
KJrt  or  another — it  must  be  the  devil  that  bewitches  you. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  l8l 

"  How  lucky  I  am  that  you  have  on  your  bonnet !  I  long  for 
a  walk  with  you  round  the  lawn." 

"  And  I,  too,  am  glad  to  see  you,  Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Caro- 
line, putting  her  arm  in  his. 

"  Accept  my  best  congratulations,  my  own  sweet  friend," 
said  Vargrave,  when  they  were  in  the  grounds.  *'  You  have  no 
idea  how  happy  Doltimore  is.  He  came  to  Knaresdean  yesterday 
to  communicate  the  news,  and  his  neckcloth  was  primmer  than 
ever. — C'est  tin  bon  enfant." 

"Ah,  how  can  you  talk  thus?  Do  you  feel  no  pain  at  the 
thought  that — that  I  am  another's?" 

"  Your  heart  will  be  ever  mine — and  that  is  the  true  fidelity : 
what  else,  too,  could  be  done?  As  for  Lord  Doltimore,  we  will 
go  shares  in  him.  Come,  cheer  thee,  vt'ainie — I  rattle  on  thus 
to  keep  up  your  spirits.     Do  not  fancy  I  am  happy  ! " 

Caroline  let  fall  a  few  tears  ;  but,  beneath  the  influence  of 
Vargrave's  sophistries  and  flatteries,  she  gradually  recovered 
her  usual  hard  and  worldly  tone  of  mind. 

"And  where  is  Evelyn?"  asked  Vargrave.  "Do  you  know 
the  little  witch  seemed  to  me  half  mad  the  night  of  the  ball : 
her  head  was  turned  ;  and  when  she  sate  next  me  at  supper,  she 
not  only  answered  every  question  I  put  to  her  a  tort  eta  trovers, 
but  I  fancied  every  moment  she  was  going  to  burst  out  crying. 
Can  you  tell  what  was  the  matter  with  her  ? " 

"  She  was  grieved  to  hear  that  I  was  to  be  married  to  the  man 
I  do  not  love.     Ah,  Vargrave !  she  has  more  heart  than  you  have." 

"  But  she  never  fancies  that  you  love  me  ? "  asked  Lumley,  in 
alarm.     "You  women  are  so  confoundedly  confidential !  " 

"  No — she  does  not  suspect  our  secret." 

"Then  I  scarcely  think  your  approaching  marriage  was  a  suf- 
ficient cause  for  so  much  distraction." 

"  Perhaps  she  may  have  overheard  some  of  the  impertinent 
whispers  about  her  mother, — *  Who  was  Lady  Vargrave  ? ' — and , 
'What  Cameron  was  Lady  Vargrave's  first  husband  ?'  /  over- 
heard a  hundred  such  vulgar  questions,  and  provincial  people 
whisper  so  loud." 

"Ah,  that  is  a  very  probable  solution  of  the  mystery.  And 
for  my  part,  I  am  almost  as  much  puzzled  as  any  one  else  can 
be  to  know  who  Lady  Vargrave  was  !  " 

"Did  not  your  uncle  tell  you?" 

"  He  told  me  that  she  was  of  no  very  elevated  birth  and  sta- 
tion, nothing  more  ;  and  she  herself,  with  her  quiet  say-nothing 
manner,  slips  through  all  my  careless  questionings  like  an  eel. 
She  is  still  a  beautiful  creature,  more  regularly  handsome  than 


l82  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

even  Evelyn  ;  and  old  Templeton  had  a  very  sweet  tooth  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  though  he  never  opened  his  mouth  wide  enough 
to  show  it." 

"She  must  ever  at  least  have  been  blameless,  to  judge  by  an 
air  which,  even  now,  is  more  like  that  of  a  child  than  a  matron." 

"Yes  ;  she  has  not  much  of  the  widow  about  her,  poor  soul ! 
But  her  education,  except  in  music,  has  not  been  very  carefully 
attended  to ;  and  she  knows  about  as  much  of  the  world  as  the 
Bishop  of  Autun  (better  known  as  Prince  Talleyrand)  knows  of 
the  Bible.  If  she  were  not  so  simple,  she  would  be  silly  ;  but 
silliness  is  never  simple — always  cunning;  however,  there  is  some 
cunning  in  her  keeping  her  past  Cameronian  Chronicles  so  close. 
Perhaps  I  may  know  more  about  her  in  a  short  time,  for  I 

intend  going  to  C ,  where  my  uncle  once  lived,  in  order  to 

see  if  I  can  revive,  under  the  rose, — since  peers  are  only  con- 
traband electioneers — his  old  parliamentary  influence  in  that 
city ;  and  they  may  tell  me  more  there  than  I  now  know." 

"Did  the  late  lord  marry  at  C ?" 

"  No — in  Devonshire.  I  do  not  even  know  if  Mrs.  Cameron 
ever  was  at  C ." 

"You  must  be  curious  to  know  who  the  father  of  your  in- 
tended wife  was?" 

"  Her  father !  No  ;  I  have  no  curiosity  in  that  quarter.  And, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  much  too  busy  about  the  Present  to 
be  raking  into  that  heap  of  rubbish  we  call  the  Past.  I  fancy 
that  both  your  good  grandmother,  and  that  comely  old  curate 
of  Brook-Green,  know  everything  about  Lady  Vargrave  ;  and, 
as  they  esteem  her  so  much,  I  take  it  for  granted  she  is  sans 
tachey 

"  How  could  I  be  so  stupid  ! — hpropos  of  the  curate,  I  for- 
got to  tell  you  that  he  is  here.  He  arrived  about  two  hours 
ago,  and  has  been  closeted  with  Evelyn  ever  since  !  " 

"  The  deuce  !     What  brought  the  old  man  hither?" 

"  That  I  know  not.  Papa  received  a  letter  from  him  yester- 
day morning,  to  say  that  he  would  be  here  to-day.  Perhaps 
Lady  Vargrave  thinks  it  time  for  Evelyn  to  return  home." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  said  Vargrave  anxiously.  "  Dare  I  yet 
venture  to  propose? " 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  be  in  vain,  Vargrave.  You  must  prepare 
for  disappointment." 

"  And  ruin,"  muttered  Vargrave,  gloomily.  "  Hark  you, 
Caroline — she  may  refuse  me  if  she  pleases.  But  I  am  not  a 
man  to  be  baffled.  Have  her  I  will,  by  one  means  or  another ; 
revenge  urges  me  to  it  almost  as  much  as  ambition.     That 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  1 83 

girl's  thread  of  life  has  been  the  dark  line  in  my  woof — she 
has  robbed  me  of  fortune — she  now  thwarts  me  in  my  career — 
she  humbles  me  in  my  vanity.  But,  like  a  hound  that  has  tasted 
blood,  I  will  run  her  down,  whatever  winding  she  takes  !  " 

'*  Vargrave,  you  terrify  me  !  Reflect ;  we  do  not  live  in  an 
age  when  violence — " 

"Tush!"  interrupted  Lumley,  with  one  of  those  dark  looks 
wliich  at  times,  thougli  very  rarely,  swept  away  all  its  custom- 
ary character  from  that  smooth,  shrewd  countenance.  "Tush  ! 
we  live  in  an  age  as  favorable  to  intellect  and  to  energy  as 
ever  was  painted  in  romance.  I  have  that  faith  in  fortune  and 
myself  that  I  tell  you,  with  a  prophet's  voice,  that  Evelyn  shall 
fulfil  the  wish  of  my  dying  uncle.  But  the  bell  summons  us 
back." 

On  returning  to  the  house,  Lord  Vargrave's  valet  gave  him 
a  letter,  which  had  arrived  that  morning.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Gustavus  Douce,  and  ran  thus  : 

"Fleet  Street, 20th,  18 — . 

"  My  Lord  : 

"It  is  with  the  greatest  regret  that  I  apprise  you,  for  Self  & 
Co.,  that  we  shall  not  be  able  in  the  present  state  of  the 
Money  Market  to  renew  your  Lordship's  bill  for  ;^i 0,000,  due 
the  28th  instant.  Respectfully  calling  your  Lordship's  atten- 
tion to  same, 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"  For  Self  &  Co.,  my  Lord, 
"Your  Lordship's  most  obedient  and  most  obliged  humble 
servant,  Gustavus  Douce. 

"To  the  Right  Hon.  the  Lord  Vargrave, etc.,  etc." 

This  letter  sharpened  Lord  Vargrave's  anxiety  and  resolve  ; 
nay,  it  seemed  almost  to  sharpen  his  sharp  features  as  he  mut- 
tered sundry  denunciations  on  Messrs.  Douce  and  Co.,  while 
arranging  his  neckcloth  at  the  glass. 


CHAPTER  VL 

Sol.  "  Why,  please  your  honorable  lordship,  we  were  talking  here  and 
there — this  and  that." — 7'Ae  Stranger. 

Aubrey  had  been  closeted  with  Evelyn  the  whole  morning  ; 
and,  simultaneous  with  his  arrival,  came  to  her  the  news  of  the 
departure  of  Maltravers  ;  it  was   an  intelligence  that  greatly 


1S4  AtlCE  ;    OR,  TtiE   MYSTERIES. 

agitated  and  unnerved  her;  and,  coupling  that  event  with  his 
solemn  words  on  the  previous  night,  Evelyn  asked  herself,  in 
wonder,  what  sentiments  she  could  have  inspired  in  Maltravers. 
Could  he  love  her? — her,  so  young — so  inferior — so  uninformed  ! 
Impossible  !  Alas  !  alas  !  for  Maltravers  !  his  genius — his  gifts 
— his  towering  qualities — all  that  won  the  admiration,  almost 
the  awe,  of  Evelyn — placed  him  at  a  distance  from  her  heart  ! 
When  she  asked  herself  if  he  loved  her,  she  did  not  ask,  even 
in  that  hour,  if  she  loved  him.  But  even  the  question  she  did 
ask,  her  judgment  answered  erringly  in  the  negative — Why 
should  he  love, and  yet  fly  her?  She  understood  not  his  high- 
wrought  scruples — his  self-deluding  belief,  Aubrey  was  more 
puzzled  than  enlightened  by  his  conversation  with  his  pupil  ; 
only  one  thing  seemed  certain — her  delight  to  return  to  the 
cottage  and  her  mother. 

Evelyn  could  not  sufficiently  recover  her  composure  to  mix" 
with  the  party  below  ;  and  Aubrey,  at  the  sound  of  the  second 
dinner-bell,  left  her  to  solitude,  and  bore  her  excuses  to  Mrs. 
Merton. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  that  worthy  lady  ;  "  I  am  so  sorry — I  thought 
Miss  Cameron  looked  fatigued  at  breakfast ;  and  there  was 
something  hysterical  in  her  spirits ;  and  I  suppose  the  surprise 
of  your  arrival  has  tipset  her.  Caroline,  my  dear,  you  had 
better  go  and  see  what  she  would  like  to  have  taken  up  to  her 
room — a  little  soup,  and  the  wing  of  a  chicken." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  rather  pompously,  "I  think  it 
would  be  but  a  proper  respect  to  Miss  Cameron  if  you  your- 
self accompanied  Caroline." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  the  curate,  alarmed  at  the  avalanche  of 
politeness  that  threatened  poor  Evelyn,  "I  assure  you  that  Miss 
Cameron  would  prefer  being  left  alone  at  present ;  as  you  say, 
Mrs.  Merton,  her  spirits  are  rather  agitated." 

But  Mrs.  Merton,  with  a  sliding  bow,  had  already  quitted  the 
room,  and  Caroline  with  her. 

"Come  back,  Sophy  ! — Cecilia,  come  back  !"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
ton, settling  h.\?>  Jabot. 

"Oh,  dear  Evy  ! — poor  dear  Evy  ! — Evy  is  ill !"  said  Sophy  ; 
"  I  may  go  to  Evy  ! — I  must  go,  papa  !  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  you  are  too  noisy;  these  children  are  quite 
spoiled,  Mr.  Aubrey." 

The  old  man  looked  at  them  benevolently,  and  drew  them  to 
his  knee  ,  and,  while  Cissy  stroked  his  long  white  hair,  and 
Sophy  ran  on  about  dear  Evy's  prettiness  and  goodness,  Lord 
Vargrave  sauntered  into  the  room. 


ALICF  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  185 

On  seeing  the  curate,  his  frank  face  lighted  up  with  surprise 
and  pleasure  ;  he  hastened  to  him,  seized  him  by  both  hands, 
expressed  the  most  heartfelt  delight  at  seeing  him,  inquired 
tenderly  after  Lady  Vargrave,  and,  not  till  he  was  out  of  breath, 
and  Mrs.  Merton  and  Caroline  returning  apprised  him  of  Miss 
Cameron's  indisposition,  did  his  rapture  vanish  ;  and,  as  a  mo- 
ment before  he  was  all  joy,  so  now  he  was  all  sorrow. 

The  dinner  passed  off  dully  enough  ;  the  children,  re-admit- 
ted to  dessert,  made  a  little  relief  to  all  parties  ;  and,  when  they 
and  the  two  ladies  went,  Aubrey  himself  quickly  rose  to  join 
Evelyn. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Miss  Cameron  ?  "  said  Lord  Vargrave  ; 
"  pray  say  how  unhappy  I  feel  at  her  illness.  I  think  these 
grapes — they  are  very  fine — could  not  hurt  her.  May  I  ask 
you  to  present  them  with  my  best — best  and  most  anxious  re- 
gards ?  I  shall  be  so  uneasy  till  you  return.  Now,  Merton  (as 
the  door  closed  on  the  curate),  let's  have  another  bottle  of  this 
famous  claret ! — Droll  old  fellow,  that — quite  a  character  !  " 
.  "  He  is  a  great  favorite  with  Lady  Vargrave  and  Miss  Cam- 
eron, I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Merton.  "A  mere  village  priest,  I 
suppose ;  no  talent,  no  energy — or  he  could  not  be  a  curate  at 
that  age." 

"  Very  true  ; — a  shrewd  remark.  The  church  is  as  good  a 
profession  as  any  other  for  getting  on,  if  a  man  has  anything 
in  him.     I  shall  live  to  ^qq you  a  bishop  !  " 

Mr.  Merton  shook  his  head. 

'*  Yes,  I  shall ;  though  you  have  hitherto  disdained  to  ex- 
hibit any  one  of  the  three  orthodox  qualifications  for  a  mitre." 

"  And  what  are  they,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Editing  a  Greek  play — writing  a  political  pamphlet — and 
apostatizing  at  the  proper  mom'?nt." 

"Ha  !  ha  !  your  lordship  is  severe  on  us." 

"Not  I — I  often  wish  I  had  been  brought  up  to  the  church — 
famous  profession,  properly  understood.  By  Jupiter,  I  should 
have  been  a  capital  bishop  !  " 

In  his  capacity  of  parson,  Mr.  Merton  tried  to  look  grave  ;  in 
his  capacity  of  a  gentlemanlike,  liberal  fellow,  he  gave  up  the 
attempt,  and  laughed  pleasantly  at  the  joke  of  the  rising  man. 


l86  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

**  Will  nothing  please  you  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  the  Court  ?  "—The  Plain  Dealer. 

On  one  subject,  Aubrey  found  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining 
Evelyn's  wishes  and  condition  of  mind.  The  experiment  of 
her  visit,  so  far  as  Vargrave's  hopes  were  concerned,  had  utter- 
ly failed  ;  she  could  not  contemplate  the  prospect  of  his  alliance, 
and  she  poured  out  to  the  curate,  frankly  and  fully,  all  her 
desire  to  effect  a  release  from  her  engagement.  As  it  was  now 
settled  that  she  should  return  with  Aubrey  to  Brook-Green,  it 
was  indeed  necessary  to  come  to  the  long-delayed  understand- 
ing with  her  betrothed.  Yet  this  was  difficult,  for  he  had  so 
little  pressed — so  distantly  alluded  to — their  engagement,  that 
it  was  like  a  forwardness,  an  indelicacy  in  Evelyn,  to  forestall 
the  longed-for,  yet  dreaded  explanation.  This,  however,  Au- 
brey took  upon  himself  ;  and  at  this  promise  Evelyn  felt  as  the 
slave  may  feel  when  the  chain  is  stricken  off. 

At  breakfast,  Mr.  Aubrey  communicated  to  the  Mertons 
Evelyn's  intention  to  return  with  him  to  Brook-Green,  on  the 
following  day.  Lord  Vargrave  started — bit  his  lip — but  said 
nothing. 

Not  so  silent  was  Mr.  Merton : 

"  Return  with  you  !  my  dear  Mr.  Aubrey — just  consider — it 
is  impossible — you  see  Miss  Cameron's  rank  of  life,  her  posi- 
tion— so  very  strange — no  servants  of  her  own  here  but  her 
woman — no  carriage  even  !  You  would  not  have  her  travel  in 
a  post-chaise — such  a  long  journey  !  Lord  Vargrave,  you  can 
never  consent  to  that,  I  am  sure  ?  " 

"  Were  it  only  as  Miss  Cameron's  ^//<3!r^/««,"  said  Lord  Var- 
grave pointedly,  "  I  should  certainly  object  to  such  a  mode  of 
performing  such  a  journey.  Perhaps  Mr.  Aubrey  means  to 
perfect  the  project  by  taking  two  outside  places  on  the  top  of 
the  coach  ?" 

"Pardon  me," said  the  curate  mildly,  "but I  am  not  so  igno- 
rant of  what  is  due  to  Miss  Cameron  as  you  suppose.  Lady 
Vargrave's  carriage,  which  brought  me  hither,  will  be  no  un- 
suitable vehicle  for  Lady  Vargrave's  daughter  ;  and  Miss  Cam- 
eron is  not,  I  trust,  quite  so  spoilt  by  all  your  friendly  atten- 
tions, as  to  be  unable  to  perform  a  journey  of  two  days  with 
no  other  protector  than  myself." 

"  I  forgot  Lady  Vargrave's  carriage,  or  rather  I  was  not  aware 
that  you  had  used  it,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Merton.     "But 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  1 87 

you  must  not  blame  us,  if  we  are  sorry  to  lose  Miss  Cameron 
so  suddenly  :  I  was  in  hopes  that  you  too  would  stay  at  least  a 
week  with  us." 

The  curate  bowed  at  the  rector's  condescending  politeness ; 
and  just  as  he  was  about  to  answer,  Mrs.  Merton  put  in  : 

"And  you  see  I  had  set  my  heart  on  her  being  Caroline's 
bridesmaid." 

Caroline  turned  pale,  and  glanced  at  Vargrave,  who  appeared 
solely  absorbed  in  breaking  toast  into  his  tea — a  delicacy  he 
had  never  before  been  known  to  favor. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  :  the  servant  opportunely  en- 
tered with  a  small  parcel  of  books,  a  note  to  Mr.  Merton,  and 
that  most  blessed  of  all  blessed  things  in  the  country,  the  let- 
ter-bag. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  said  the  rector,  opening  his  note  ;  while  Mrs. 
Merton  unlocked  the  bag  and  dispensed  the  contents;  "Left 
Burleigh  for  some  months — a  day  or  two  sooner  than  he  had 
expected — excuse  French  leave-taking — return  Miss  Merton's 
books — much  obliged — gamekeeper  has  orders  to  place  the  Bur- 
leigh preserves  at  my  disposal.     So  we  have  lost  our  neighbor!  " 

"  Did  you  not  know  Mr.  Maltravers  was  gone  ? "  said  Caroline. 
"  I  heard  so  from  Jenkins  last  night ;  he  accompanies  Mr.  Cleve- 
land to  Paris." 

"  Indeed  !  "  .said  Mrs.  Merton,  opening  her  eyes.  "  What  could 
take  him  to  Paris?" 

"  Pleasure,  I  suppose,"  answered  Caroline.  "  I'm  sure  I  should 
rather  have  w^ondered  what  could  detain  him  at  Burleigh." 

Vargrave  was  all  this  while  breaking  open  seals,  and  running 
his  eyes  over  sundry  scrawls  with  the  practised  rapidity  of  a 
man  of  business  ;  he  came  to  the  last  letter — his  countenance 
brightened — 

"  Royal  invitation,  or  rather  command,  to  Windsor,"  he  cried. 
"  I  am  afraid  I,  too,  must  leave  you,  this  very  day." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Merton  ;  "  is  that  from  the  king  ? 
Do  let  me  see  !  " 

"Not  exactly  from  the  king ;  the  same  thing,  though;"  and 
Lord  Vargrave,  carelessly  pushing  the  gracious  communication 
towards  the  impatient  hand  and  loyal  gaze  of  Mrs.  Merton,  care- 
fully put  the  other  letters  in  his  pocket,  and  walked  musingly  to 
the  window. 

Aubrey  seized  the  opportunity  to  approach  him.  "  My  lord, 
can  I  speak  with  you  a  few  moments?" 

**  Me  !  certainly  :  will  you  come  to  my  dressing-room  ?  " 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

.     .     .     .  "  There  was  never 

Poor  gentleman  had  such  a  sudden  fortune." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher:   The  Captain,  Act  v.  Scene  5. 

"My  Lord,"  said  the  curate,  as  Vargrave,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  appeared  to  examine  the  shape  of  his  boots  ;  while,  in 
reality,  his  "sidelong  looks,"  not  "of  love,"  were  fixed  upon  his 
companion — "  I  need  scarcely  refer  to  the  wish  of  the  late  lord, 
your  uncle,  relative  to  Miss  Cameron  and  yourself ;  nor  need  I, 
to  one  of  a  generous  spirit,  add,  that  an  engagement  could  be 
only  so  far  binding  as  both  the  parties,  whose  happiness  it  con- 
cerned, should  be  willing  in  proper  time  and  season  to  fulfil  it." 

"Sir!"  said  Vargrave,  impatiently  waving  his  hand ;  and,  in 
his  irritable  surmise  of  what  was  to  come,  losing  his  habitual 
self-control — "  I  know  not  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  you  ; 
surely  you  trespass  upon  ground  sacred  to  Miss  Cameron  and 
myself.  Whatever  you  have  to  say,  let  me  beg  you  to  come  at 
once  to  the  point." 

"  My  lord,  I  may  obey  you.  Miss  Cameron — and,  I  may  add, 
with  Lady  Vargrave's  consent — deputes  me  to  say  that,  although 
she  feels  compelled  to  decline  the  honor  of  your  lordship's 
alliance,  yet,  if  in  any  arrangement  of  the  fortune  bequeathed 
to  her  she  could  testify  to  you,  my  lord,  her  respect  and  friend- 
ship, it  would  afford  her  the  most  sincere  gratification." 

Lord  Vargrave  started. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  know  not  if  I  am  to  thank  you  for  this 
information — theannouncementof  which  so  strangely  coincides 
with  your  arrival.  But  allow  me  to  say,  that  there  needs  no 
ambassador  between  Miss  Cameron  and  myself.  It  is  due,  sir, 
to  my  station,  to  my  relationship,  to  my  character  of  guardian, 
to  my  long  and  faithful  affection,  to  all  considerations  which 
men  of  the  world  understand,  which  men  of  feeling  sympathize 
with,  to  receive  from  Miss  Cameron  alone  the  rejection  of  my 
suit ! " 

"  Unquestionably  Miss  Cameron  will  grant  your  lordship  the 
interview  you  have  a  right  to  seek  ;  but  pardon  me,  I  thought  it 
might  save  you  both  much  pain,  if  the  meeting  were  prepared 
by  a  third  person ;  and  on  any  matter  of  business,  any  atone- 
ment to  your  lordship — " 

"  Atonement ! — what  can  atone  to  me  ? "  exclaimed  Vargrave, 
as  he  walked  to  and  fro  the  room  in  great  disorder  and  excite- 
ment. "  Can  you  give  me  back  years  of  hope  and  expectancy — 
the  manhood  wasted  in  a  vain  dream  ?    Had  I  not  been  taught 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  189 

to  look  to  this  reward,  should  I  have  rejected  all  occasion — 
while  my  youth  was  not  yet  all  gone,  while  my  heart  was  not 
yet  all  occupied — to  form  a  suitable  alliance?  Nay,  should  I 
have  indulged  in  a  high  and  stirring  career,  for  which  my  own 
fortune  is  by  no  means  qualified.  Atonement! — atonement! 
Talk  of  atonement  to  boys !  Sir !  I  stand  before  you  a  man 
v/hose  private  happiness  is  blighted,  whose  public  prospects  are 
darkened,  life  wasted,  fortunes  ruined,  the  schemes  of  an  exis- 
tence, built  upon  one  hope,  which  was  lawfully  indulged,  over- 
thrown ! — and  you  talk  to  me  of  atonement !" 

Selfish  as  the  nature  of  this  complaint  might  be,  Aubrey  was 
struck  with  its  justice. 

"My  lord,"  said  he,  a  little  embarrassed,  "I  cannot  deny 
that  there  is  truth  in  much  of  what  you  say.  Alas  !  it  proves 
how  vain  it  is  for  man  to  calculate  on  the  future,  how  unhap- 
pily your  uncle  erred  in  imposing  conditions,  which  the  chances 
of  life  and  the  caprices  of  affection  could  at  any  time  dissolve  ! 
But  this  is  blame  that  attaches  only  to  the  dead  :  can  you 
blame  the  living?" 

"Sir,  I  considered  myself  bound  by  my  uncle's  prayer  to 
keep  my  hand  and  heart  disengaged,  that  this  title — miserable 
and  barren  distinction  though  it  be  ! — might,  as  he  so  ardently 
desired,  descend  to  Evelyn.  I  had  a  right  to  expect  similar 
honor  upon  her  side  !  " 

"  Surely,  my  lord,  you,  to  whom  the  late  lord  on  his  death- 
bed confided  all  the  motives  of  his  conduct  and  the  secret  of 
his  life,  cannot  but  be  aware  that,  while  desirous  of  promoting 
your  worldly  welfare,  and  uniting  in  one  line  his  rank  and  his 
fortune,  your  uncle  still  had  Evelyn's  happiness  at  heart  as  his 
warmest  wish  ;  you  must  know  that,  if  that  happiness  were  for- 
feited by  a  marriage  with  you,  the  marriage  became  but  a  sec- 
ondary consideration.  Lord  Vargrave's  will  in  itself  was  a 
proof  of  this.  '  He  did  not  impose,  as  an  absolute  condition, 
upon  Evelyn,  her  union  with  yourself;  he  did  not  make  the 
forfeiture  of  her  whole  wealth  the  penalty  of  her  rejection  of 
that  alliance.  By  the  definite  limit  of  the  forfeit,  he  intimated 
a  distinction  between  a  command  and  a  desire.  And  surely, 
when  you  consider  all  circumstances,  your  lordship  must  think 
that,  what  with  that  forfeit  and  the  estate  settled  upon  the  title, 
your  uncle  did  all  that,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  equity,  and 
even  affection,  could  exact  from  him." 

Vargrave  smiled  bitterly,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  if  this  be  doubted,  I  have  clearer  proof  of  his  intentions. 
3uch  was  hi§  confidence  in  Lady  Vargrave,  that,  in  the  letter 


igo  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

iie  addressed  to  her  before  his  death,  and  which  I  now  submit 
to  your  lordship,  you  will  observe  that  he  not  only  ex])ressly 
leaves  it  to  Lady  Vargrave's  discretion  to  communicate  to 
Evelyn  that  history  of  which  she  is  at  present  ignorant,  but 
that  he  also  clearly  defines  the  line  of  conduct  he  wished  to  be 
adopted  with  respect  to  Evelyn  and  yourself.  Permit  me  to 
l^oint  out  the  passage." 

Impatiently  Lord  Vargrave  ran  his  eye  over  the  letter  placed 
in  his  hands,  till  he  came  to  these  lines  : 

"  And  if,  when  she  has  arrived  at  the  proper  age  to  form  a 
judgment,  Evelyn  should  decide  against  Lumley's  claims,  you 
know  that  on  no  account  would  1  sacrifice  her  happiness ;  all 
that  I  require  is,  that  fair  play  be  given  to  his  pretensions — 
due  indulgence  to  the  scheme  I  have  long  had  at  heart.  Let 
her  be  brought  up  to  consider  him  her  future  husband,  let  her 
not  be  prejudiced  against  him,  let  her  fairly  judge  for  herself, 
when  the  time  arrives." 

"You  see,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Aubrey,  as  he  took  back  the 
letter,  "that  this  letter  bears  the  same  date  as  your  uncle's  will. 
What  he  desired  has  been  done.  Be  just,  my  lord — be  just, 
and  exonerate  us  all  from  blame :  who  can  dictate  to  the 
affections?" 

"  And  I  am  to  understand  that  I  have  no  chance,  now  or 
hereafter,  of  obtaining  the  affections  of  Evelyn  ?  Surely,  at 
your  age,  Mr.  Aubrey,  you  cannot  encourage  the  heated  romance 
common  to  all  girls  of  Evelyn's  age.  Persons  of  our  rank  do 
not  marry  like  the  Corydon  and  Phillis  of  a  pastoral.  At  my 
years,  I  never  was  fool  enough  to  expect  that  I  should  inspire 
a  girl  of  seventeen  with  what  is  called  a  passionate  attachment. 
But  happy  marriages  are  based  upon  suitable  circumstances, 
mutual  knowledge  and  indulgence,  respect,  esteem.  Come, 
sir,  let  me  hope  yet — let  me  hope  that,  on  the  same  day,  I  may 
congratulate  you  on  your  preferment  and  you  may  congratulate 
»ne  upon  my  marriage." 

Vargrave  said  this  with  a  cheerful  and  easy  smile ;  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  was  that  of  a  man  who  wished  to  convey 
serious  meaning  in  a  jesting  accent. 

Mr.  Aubrey,  meek  as  he  was,  felt  the  insult  of  the  hinted 
bribe,  and  colored  with  a  resentment  no  sooner  excited  than 
checked.  "  Excuse  me,  my  lord,  I  have  now  said  all — the  rest 
had  better  be  left  to  your  ward  herself." 

"  Be  it  so,  sir.  I  will  ask  you,  then,  to  convey  my  request 
to  Evelyn  to  honor  me  with  a  last  and  parting  interview." 

Vargrave  flung  himself  on  his  chair,  and  Aubrey  left  him, 


kliCk  ;     OR,  THE   MYSt£RiES.  101 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Thus  airy  Strephon  tuned  his  lyre." — ShenstonE. 

In  his  meeting  with  Evelyn,  Vargrave  certainly  exerted  to 
the  utmost  all  his  ability  and  all  his  art.  He  felt  that  violence, 
that  sarcasm,  that  selfish  complaint  would  not  avail,  in  a  man 
who  was  not  loved, — though  they  are  often  admirable  cards  in 
the  hands  of  a  man  who  is.  As  his  own  heart  was  perfectly 
untouched  in  the  matter,  except  by  rage  and  disappointment — • 
feelings  which  with  him  never  lasted  very  long — he  could  play 
coolly  his  losing  game.  His  keen  and  ready  intellect  taught 
him  that  all  he  could  now  expect  was  to  bequeath  sentiments 
of  generous  compassion,  and  friendly  interest;  to  create  a  favor- 
able impression,  which  he  might  hereafter  improve;  to  reserve, 
in  short,  some  spot  of  vantage-ground  in  the  country,  from 
which  he  was  to  affect  to  withdraw  all  his  forces.  He  had 
known,  in  his  experience  of  women,  which,  whether  as  an  actor 
or  a  spectator,  was  large  and  various — though  not  among  very 
delicate  and  refined  natures — that  a  lady  often  takes  a  fancy  to 
a  suitor  a//er  she  has  rejected  him;  that,  precisely  because  she 
has  once  rejected,  she  ultimately  accepts  him.  And  even  this 
chance  was,  in  circumstances  so  desperate,  not  to  be  neglected. 
He  assumed,  therefore,  the  countenance,  the  postures,  and  the 
voice  of  heart-broken  but  submissive  despair;  he  affected  a 
nobleness  and  magnanimity  in  his  grief,  which  touched  Evelyn 
to  the  quick,  and  took  her  by  surprise. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  he,  in  sad  and  faltering  accents;  "quite 
enough  to  me  to  know  that  you  cannot  love  me, — that  I  should 
fail  in  rendering  you  happy:  say  no  more,  Evelyn,  say  no  more! 
Let  me  spare  you,  at  least,  the  pain  your  generous  nature  must 
feel  in  my  anguish — I  resign  all  pretensions  to  your  hand:  you 
are  free! — may  you  be  happy  !  " 

"  Oh,  Lord  Vargrave  !  oh,  Lumley  ! "  said  Evelyn,  weeping, 
and  moved  by  a  thousand  recollections  of  early  years.  "  If  I 
could  but  prove  in  any  other  way  my  grateful  sense  of  your 
merits — your  too-partial  appreciation  of  me — my  regard  for  my 
lost  benefactor — then,  indeed,  nor  till  then,  could  I  be  happy. 
Oh!  that  this  wealth,  so  little  desired  by  me,  had  been  more  at 
my  disposal;  but,  as  it  is,  the  day  that  sees  me  in  possession  of 
it  shall  see  it  placed  under  your  disposition,  your  control.  This 
is  but  justice — common  justice  to  you;  you  were  the  nearest 
relation  of  the  departed,  I  had  no  claim  on  him — none,  but 
affection.     Affection  !  and  yet  I  disobey  him  ! " 


i^i  AticE  ;   OR,  The  MVsTERifeg. 

There  was  much  in  all  this  that  secretly  pleased  Vargrave; 
but  it  only  seemed  to  redouble  his  grief. 

"  Talk  not  thus,  my  ward,  my  friend — ah!  still  my  friend," 
said  he,  putting  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes.  "  I  repine  not, — 
I  am  more  than  satisfied.  Still  let  me  preserve  my  privilege  of 
guardian,  of  adviser — a  privilege  dearer  to  me  than  all  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  had  some  faint  suspicion  that  Legard  had 
created  an  undue  interest  in  Evelyn's  heart;  and  on  this  point 
he  delicately  and  indirectly  sought  to  sound  her.  Her  replies 
convinced  him  that  if  Evelyn  had  conceived  any  prepossession 
for  Legard,  there  had  not  been  time  or  opportunity  to  ripen  ii 
into  deep  attachment.  Of  Maltravers  he  had  no  fear.  'J'he 
habitual  self-control  of  that  reserved  personage  deceived  him 
partly;  and  his  low  opinion  of  mankind  deceived  him  still  more. 
For,  if  there  had  been  any  love  between  Maltravers  and  Evelyn, 
why  should  the  former  not  have  stood  his  ground,  and  declared  his 
suit  ?  Lumley  would  have  ^* bah'd"  and  ^''pish  d" dX  the  thought 
of  any  punctilious  regard  for  engagements  so  easily  broken,  having 
power  either  to  check  passion  for  beauty,  or  to  restrain  self- 
interest  in  the  chase  of  an  heiress.  He  had  known  Maltravers 
ambitious;  and  with  him,  ambition  and  self-interest  meant  the 
same.  Thus,  by  the  wQvy  fifiesse  of  his  character — while  Var- 
grave, ever  with  the  worldly,  was  a  keen  and  almost  infallible 
observer — with  natures  of  a  more  refined,  or  a  higher  order,  he 
always  missed  the  mark  by  overshooting.  Besides,  had  a  sus- 
picion of  Maltravers  ever  crossed  him.  Caroline's  communica- 
tions would  have  dispelled  it.  It  was  more  strange  that  Caro- 
line should  have  been  blind;  nor  would  she  have  been  so,  had 
she  been  less  absorbed  in  her  own  schemes  and  destinies.  All 
her  usual  penetration  had  of  late  settled  in  self;  and  an  uneasy 
feeling — half  arising  from  conscientious  reluctance  to  aid  Var- 
grave's  objects — half  from  jealous  irritation  at  the  thought  of 
Vargrave's  marrying  another — had  prevented  her  from  seeking 
any  very  intimate  or  confidential  communication  with  Evelyn 
herself. 

The  dreaded  conference  was  over;  Evelyn  parted  from  Var- 
grave with  the  very  feelings  he  had  calculated  on  exciting, — 
the  moment  he  ceased  to  be  her  lover,  her  old  childish  regard 
for  him  recommenced.  She  pitied  his  dejection — she  respected 
his  generosity — she  was  deeply  grateful  for  his  forbearance. 
But  still — still  she  was  free  ;  and  her  heart  bounded  within  her 
at  the  thought. 

Meanwhile,  Vargrave,  after  his  solemn  farewell  to  Evelyn, 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MySTERIES.  t^J 

retreated  again  to  his  own  room,  where  he  remained  till  his 
post-horses  arrived.  Then,  descending  into  the  drawing-room, 
he  was  pleased  to  find  neither  Aubrey  nor  Evelyn  there.  He 
knew  that  much  affectation  would  be  thrown  away  upon  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Merton;  he  thanked  them  for  their  hospitality,  with 
grave  and  brief  cordiality,  and  then  turned  to  Caroline,  who 
stood  apart  by  the  window. 

"  All  is  up  with  me  at  present,"  he  whispered.  "  I  leave  you, 
Caroline,  in  anticipation  of  fortune,  rank,  and  prosperity;  that 
is  some  comfort.  For  myself,  I  see  only  difficulties,  embar- 
rassment, and  poverty  in  the  future;  but  I  despond  of  nothing — 
hereafter  you  may  serve  me,  as  I  have  served  you.  Adieu  ! — • 
I  have  been  advising  Caroline  not  to  spoil  Doltimore,  Mrs. 
Merton;  he  is  conceited  enough  already.  Good-bye!  God  bless 
you  all  I — love  to  your  little  girls.  Let  me  know  if  I  can  serve 
you  in  any  way,  Merton — good-bye  again  !  "  And  thus,  sen- 
tence by  sentence,  Vargrave  talked  himself  into  his  carriage. 
As  it  drove  by  the  drawing-room  windows,  he  saw  Caroline 
standing  motionless  where  he  had  left  her:  he  kissed  his  hand — 
her  eyes  were  fixed  mournfully  on  his.  Hard,  wayward,  and 
worldly  as  Caroline  Merton  was,  Vargrave  was  yet  not  worthy 
of  the  affection  he  had  inspired  ;  for  she  could  feci,  and  he 
could  not, — the  distinction,  perhaps,  between  the  sexes.  And 
there  still  stood  Caroline  Merton,  recalling  the  last  tones  of  that 
indifferent  voice,  till  she  felt  her  hand  seized,  and  turned  round 
to  see  Lord  Doltimore,  and  smile  upon  the  happy  lover,  per- 
suaded that  he  was  adored ! 


194  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

BOOK   IV. 

Ilvp  aol  irpoooiau,  kov  rb  abv  npoaid^fiat. — EURIP.  Androtn.  255. 
I  will  bring  fire  to  thee — I  reck  not  of  the  place. 


CHAPTER  I. 

If        *        1^     "  This  ancient  city. 

How  wanton  sits  she  amidst  Nature's  smiles  ! 

*  *        *    Various  nations  meet, 
As  in  the  sea,  yet  not  confined  in  space, 

But  streaming  freely  though  the  spacious  streets." — Young. 

*  *         *     "  His  teeth  he  still  did  grind, 

And  grimly  gnash,  threatening  revenge  in  vain." — Spenser. 

"  Paris  is  a  delightful  place — that  is  allowed  by  all.  It  is 
delightful  to  the  young,  to  the  gay,  to  the  idle  ;  to  the  literary 
lion,  who  likes  to  be  petted  ;  to  the  wiser  epicure,  who  in- 
dulges a  most  justifiable  appetite.  It  is  delightful  to  ladies, 
who  wish  to  live  at  their  ease,  and  buy  beautiful  caps  ;  de- 
lightful to  philanthropists,  who  wish  for  listeners  to  schemes  of 
colonizing  the  moon  ;  delightful  to  the  haunters  of  balls,  and 
ballets,  and  little  theatres,  and  superb  cafes,  where  men  with 
beards  of  all  sizes  and  shapes  scowl  at  the  English,  and  involve 
their  intellects  in  the  fascinating  game  of  dominoes.  For  these, 
and  for  many  others,  Paris  is  delightful.  I  say  nothing  against 
it.  But,  for  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  live  in  a  garret  in 
London,  than  in  a  palace  in  the  Chauss^e  d'Aniin — Chacun  a 
son  mauvais  goilt. 

"1  don't  like  the  streets,  in  which  I  cannot  walk  but  in  the 
kennel ;  I  don't  like  the  shops,  that  contain  nothing  except 
what's  at  the  window ;  I  don't  like  the  houses  like  prisons, 
which  look  upon  a  courtyard  :  I  don't  like  the  beaux  jardins, 
which  grow  no  plants  save  a  Cupid  in  plaster  :  I  don't  like  the 
wood  fires,  which  demand  as  many  petits  soins  as  the  women, 
and  which  warm  no  part  of  one  but  one's  eyelids :  I  don't  like 
the  language,  with  its  strong  phrases  about  nothing,  and  vibrat- 
ing like  a  pendulum  between  'rapture'  and  'desolation';  I 
don't  like  the  accent,  which  one  cannot  get  without  speaking 
through  one's  nose  ;  I  don't  like  the  eternal  fuss  and  jabber 
about  books  without  nature,  and  revolutions  without  fruit :  I 
have  no  sympathy  with  tales  that  turn  on  a  dead  jackass ;  nor 


ALICE  ;    OR,  tHE  MYSTERIES.  tpj 

with  constitutions  that  give  tl;e  ballot  to  the  representatives, 
and  withhold  the  sufffage  from  the  people  ;  neither  have  I  much 
faith  in  that  enthusiasm  for  the  beaux  arts,  which  shows  its  prod- 
uce in  execrable  music,  detestable  pictures,  abominable  sculp- 
ture, and  a  droll  something  that  I  believe  the  French  call  poetry. 
Dancing  and  cookery — these  are  the  arts  the  French  excel  in, 
I  grant  it  ;  and  excellent  things  they  are  ;  but  oh,  England  ! 
oh,  Germany  !    you  need  not  be  jealous  of  your  rival ! " 

These  are  not  the  author's  remarks — he  disowns  them  ;  they 
were  Mr.  Cleveland's.  He  was  a  prejudiced  man  ;  Maltravers 
was  more  liberal,  but  then  Maltravers  did  not  pretend  to  be  a  wit. 

Maltravers  had  been  several  weeks  in  the  city  of  cities,  and 
now  he  had  his  apartments  in  the  gloomy  but  interesting  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain,  all  to  himself.  For  Cleveland,  having 
attended  eight  days  at  a  sale,  and  having  moreover  ransacked 
all  the  curiosity  shops,  and  shipped  off  bronzes,  and  cabinets, 
and  Genoese  silks,  and  objets  de  vertu  enough  to  have  half  fur- 
nished Fonthill,  had  fulfilled  his  mission,  and  returned  to  his 
villa.  Before  the  old  gentleman  went,  he  flattered  himself  that 
change  of  air  and  scene  had  already  been  serviceable  to  his 
friend  ;  and  that  time  would  work  a  complete  cure  upon  that 
commonest  of  all  maladies,  an  unrequited  passion,  or  an  ill- 
placed  caprice. 

Maltravers,  indeed,  in  the  habit  of  conquering  as  well  as  of 
concealing  emotion,  vigorously  and  earnestly  strove  to  dethrone 
the  image  that  had  usurped  his  heart.  Still  vain  of  his  self- 
command,  and  still  worshipping  his  favorite  virtue  of  Fortitude, 
and  his  delusive  philosophy  of  the  calm  Golden  Mean,  he  would 
not  weakly  indulge  the  passion,  while  he  had  so  sternly  fled  from 
its  object.  But  yet  the  image  of  Evelyn  pursued — it  haunted 
him  ;  it  came  on  him  unawares — in  solitude — in  crowds.  That 
smile  so  cheering,  yet  so  soft,  that  ever  had  power  to  chase 
away  the  shadow  from  his  soul ;  that  youthful  and  luxurious 
bloom  of  pure  and  eloquent  thoughts,  which  was  as  the  blossom 
of  genius  before  its  fruit,  bitter  as  well  as  sweet,  is  born — that 
rare  union  of  quick  feeling  and  serene  temper,  which  forms  the 
very  ideal  of  what  we  dream  of  in  the  mistress,  and  exact  from 
the  wife  ;  all,  even  more,  far  more,  than  the  exquisite  form  and 
the  delicate  graces  of  the  less  durable  beauty,  returned  to  him, 
after  every  struggle  with  himself  :  and  time  only  seemed  to 
grave,  in  deeper  if  more  latent  folds  of  his  heart,  the  ineradica- 
ble impression. 

Maltravers  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  some  persons  not 
unfamiliar  to  the  reader. 


tg6  ALICE  ;  OR,  titE  Mysteries. 

Valerie  de  Ventadour. — How  many  recollections  of  the  fairer 
days  of  life  were  connected  with  that  n^ne  !  Precisely  as  she 
had  never  reached  to  his  love,  but  only  excited  his  fancy  (the 
fancy  of  twenty-two  !)  had  her  image  always  retained  a  pleasant 
and  grateful  hue  ;  it  was  blended  with  no  deep  sorrow — no 
stern  regret — no  dark  remorse — no  haunting  shame. 

They  met  again.  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  still  beautiful, 
and  still  admired — perhaps  more  admired  than  ever  :  for,  to  the 
great,  fashion  and  celebrity  bring  a  second  and  yet  more  popu- 
lar youth.  But  Maltravers,  if  rejoiced  to  see  how  gently  Time 
had  dealt  with  the  fair  Frenchwoman,  was  yet  more  pleased  to 
read  in  her  fine  features  a  more  serene  and  contented  expres- 
sion than  they  had  formerly  worn.  Valerie  de  Ventadour  had 
preceded  her  younger  admirer  through  the  "mysteries  of 
life";  she  had  learned  the  real  objects  of  being;  she  dis- 
tinguished between  the  Actual  and  the  Visionary — the  Shadow 
and  the  Substance  ;  she  had  acquired  content  for  the  present, 
and  looked  with  quiet  hope  towards  the  future.  Her  character 
was  still  spotless  ;  or,  rather,  every  year  of  temptation  and  trial 
had  given  it  a  fairer  lustre.  Love,  that  might  have  ruined, 
being  once  subdued,  preserved  her  from  all  after-danger.  The 
first  meeting  between  Maltravers  and  Valerie  was,  it  is  true, 
one  of  some  embarrassment  and  reserve  :  not  so  the  second. 
They  did  but  once,  and  that  slightly,  recur  to  the  past :  and 
from  that  moment,  as  by  a  tacit  understanding,  true  friendship 
between  them  dated.  Neither  felt  mortified  to  see  that  an 
illusion  had  passed  away — they  were  no  longer  the  same  in 
each  other's  eyes.  Both  might  be  improved,  and  were  so  ;  but 
the  Valerie  and  the  Ernest  of  Naples  were  as  things  dead  and 
gone  !  Perhaps  Valerie's  heart  was  even  more  reconciled  to 
the  cure  of  its  soft  and  luxurious  malady  by  the  renewal  of  their 
acquaintance.  The  mature  and  experienced  reasoner,  in  whom 
enthusiasm  had  undergone  its  usual  change,  with  the  calm 
brow  and  commanding  aspect  of  sober  manhood,  was  a  being 
so  different  from  the  romantic  boy,  new  to  the  actual  world  of 
civilized  toils  and  pleasures — fresh  from  the  adventures  of 
Eastern  wanderings,  and  full  of  golden  dreams  of  poetry  before 
it  settles  into  authorship  or  action  !  She  missed  the  brilliant 
errors — the  daring  aspirations — even  the  animated  gestures  and 
eager  eloquence — that  had  interested  and  enamoured  her  in  the 
loiterer  by  the  shores  of  Baiaj,  or  amidst  the  tomblike  chambers 
of  Pompeii.  For  the  Maltravers  now  before  her — wiser — ■ 
better — nobler — even  handsomer  than  of  yore  (for  he  was  one 
whom  manhood  became  better  than  youth) — the  Frenchwoman 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  197 

could  at  any  period  have  felt  friendship  without  danger.  It 
seemed  to  her,  not  as  it* really  was,  the  natural  development,  but 
the  very  contrast,  of  the  ardent,  variable,  imaginative  boy,  by 
whose  side  she  had  gazed  at  night  on  the  moonlit  waters  and 
rosy  skies  of  the  soft  Parthenope  !  How  does  time,  after  long 
absence,  bring  to  us  such  contrast  between  the  one  we  remem- 
ber and  the  one  we  see  !  And  what  a  melancholy  mockery  does 
it  seem  of  our  o.vn  vain  hearts,  dreaming  of  impressions  never 
to  be  changed,  and  affections  that  never  can  grow  cool ! 

And  now,  as  they  conversed  with  all  the  ease  of  cordial  and 
guileless  friendship,  how  did  Valerie  rejoice  in  secret  that  upon 
that  friendship  there  rested  no  blot  of  shame  !  and  that  she  had 
not  forfeited  those  consolations  for  a  home  without  love,  which 
had  at  last  settled  into  cheerful  nor  unhallowed  resignation — 
consolations  only  to  be  found  in  the  conscience  and  the 
pride  ! 

Monsieur  de  Ventadour  had  not  altered,  except  that  his  nose 
was  longer,  and  that  he  now  wore  a  peruque  in  full  curl,  instead 
of  his  own  straight  hair.  But,  somehow  or  other — perhaps  by 
the  mere  charm  of  custom — he  had  grown  more  pleasing  in  Va- 
lerie's eyes;  habit  had  reconciled  her  to  his  foibles,  deficiencies, 
and  faults ;  and,  by  comparison  with  others,  she  could  better 
appreciate  his  good  qualities,  such  as  they  were — generosity, 
good-temper,  good-nature,  and  unbounded  indulgence  to  herself. 
Husband  and  wife  have  so  many  interests  in  common,  that,  when 
they  have  jogged  on  through  the  ups-and-downs  of  life  a  suffic- 
ient time,  the  leash  which  at  first  galled  often  grows  easy  and 
familiar  ;  and  unless  the  temper,  or  rather  the  disposition  and 
the  heart,  of  either  be  insufferable,  what  was  once  a  grievous 
yoke  becomes  but  a  companionable  tie.  And  for  the  rest,  Va- 
lerie, now  that  sentiment  and  fancy  were  sobered  down,  could 
take  pleasure  in  a  thousand  things  which  her  pining  affections 
once,  as  it  were,  overlooked  and  overshot.  She  could  feel  grate- 
ful for  all  the  advantages  her  station  and  wealth  procured  her; 
she  could  cull  the  roses  in  her  reach,  without  sighing  for  the 
amaranths  of  Elysium. 

If  the  great  have  more  temptations  than  those  of  middle  life, 
and  if  their  senses  of  enjoyment  become  more  easily  pampered 
into  a  sickly  apathy;  so  at  least  (if  they  can  once  outlive  satiety) 
they  have  many  more  resources  at  their  command.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  justice  in  the  old  line,  displeasing  though  it  be  to 
those  who  think  of  love  in  a  cottage,  "  'tis  best  repenting  in  a 
coach  and  six  !  "  If  among  the  Eupatrids,  the  Well  Born,  there 
is  less  love  in  wedlock,  less  quiet  happiness  at  home,  still  they  are 


198  ALiCE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

less  chained  each  to  each — they  have  more  independence,  both 
the  woman  and  the  man — and  occupations  and  the  solace  witliout 
can  be  so  easily  obtained  !  Madame  de  Ventadour,  in  retiring 
from  the  mere  frivolities  of  society — from  crowded  rooms,  and 
the  inane  talk  and  hollow  smiles  of  mere  acquaintanceship — 
became  more  sensible  of  the  pleasures  that  her  refined  and  ele- 
gant intellect  could  derive  from  art  and  talent,  and  the  commu- 
nion of  friendship.  She  drew  around  her  the  most  cultivated 
minds  of  her  time  and  country.  Her  abilities,  her  wit,  and 
her  conversational  graces  enabled  her  not  only  to  mix  on  equal 
terms  with  the  most  eminent,  but  to  amalgamate  and  blend  the 
varieties  of  talent  into  harmony.  The  same  persons,  when 
met  elsewhere,  seemed  to  have  lost  their  charm:  under  Valerie's 
roof  every  one  breathed  a  congenial  atmosphere.  And  music 
and  letters,  and  all  that  can  refine  and  embellish  civilized  life, 
contributed  their  resources  to  this  gifted  and  beautiful  woman. 
And  thus  she  found  that  the  7nind  has  excitement  and  occupa- 
tion, as  well  as  the  heart ;  and,  unlike  the  latter,  the  culture  we 
bestow  upon  the  first  ever  yields  us  its  return.  We  talk  of  edu- 
cation for  the  poor,  but  we  forget  how  much  it  is  needed  by  the 
rich.  Valerie  was  a  living  instance  of  the  advantages  to  woman 
of  knowledge  and  intellectual  resources.  By  them  she  had 
purified  her  fancy — by  them  she  had  conquered  discontent — by 
them  she  had  grown  reconciled  to  life,  and  to  her  lot  !  Wlien  the 
heavy  heart  weighed  down  the  one  scale,  it  was  the  mind  that  re- 
stored the  balance. 

The  spells  of  Madame  de  Ventadour  drew  Maltravers  into 
this  charmed  circle  of  all  that  was  highest,  purest,  and  most  gifted 
in  the  society  of  Paris.  There  he  did  not  meet,  as  were  met  in 
the  times  of  the  old  rigivie,  sparkling  abbes  intent  upon  in- 
trigues; or  amorous  old  dowagers,  eloquent  on  Rousseau;  or  pow- 
dered courtiers,  uttering  epigrams  against  kings  and  religions — 
straws  that  foretold  the  whirlwind.  Paul  Courier  was  right ! 
Frenchmen  are  Frenchmen  still,  they  are  full  of  fine  phrases, 
and  their  thoughts  smell  of  the  theatre ;  they  mistake  foil  for 
diamonds,  the  Grotesque  for  the  Natural,  the  Exaggerated  for 
the  Sublime: — but  still,  I  say,  Paul  Courier  was  right:  there  is 
more  honesty  now  in  a  single  salon  in  Paris,  than  there  was  in 
all  France  in  the  days  of  Voltaire!  Vast  interests  and  solemn 
causes  are  no  longer  tossed  about  like  shuttlecocks  on  the  bat- 
tledores of  empty  tongues.  In  the  bouleverstment  of  Revolu- 
tions, the  French  have  fallen  on  their  feet ! 

Meeting  men  of  all  parties  and  all  classes,  Maltravers  was 
Struck  with  the  heightened  tone  of  public  morals,  the  earnest 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  I99 

sincerity  of  feeling  which  generally  pervaded  all,  as  compared 
with  his  first  recollections  of  the  Parisians.  He  saw  that  true  ele- 
ments for  national  wisdom  were  at  work,  though  he  saw  also  that 
tliere  was  no  country  in  which  their  operations  would  be  more 
liable  to  disorder,  more  slow  and  irregular  in  their  results.  The 
French  are  like  the  Israelites  in  the  Wilderness,  when,  accord- 
ing to  a  Hebrew  tradition,  every  morning  they  seemed  on  the 
verge  of  Pisgah,  and  every  evening  they  were  as  far  from  it  as 
ever.  But  still  time  rolls  on,  the  pilgrimage  draws  to  its  close, 
and  the  Canaan  must  come  at  last! 

At  Valerie's  house,  Maltravers  once  more  met  the  De  Mon- 
taignes.  It  was  a  painful  meeting,  for  they  thought  of  Cesa- 
rini  when  they  met. 

It  is  now  time  to  return  to  that  unhappy  man.  Cesarini  had 
been  removed  from  England,  when  Maltravers  quitted  it  after 
Lady  Florence's  death  ;  and  Maltravers  had  thought  it  best  to 
acquaint  De  Montaigne  with  all  the  circumstances  that  had  led 
to  his  affliction.  The  pride  and  the  honor  of  the  high-spirited 
Frenchman  were  deeply  shocked  by  the  tale  of  fraud  and  guilt, 
softened  as  it  was  ;  but  the  sight  of  the  criminal,  his  awful  pun- 
ishment, merged  every  other  feeling  in  compassion.  Placed 
imder  the  care  of  the  most  skilful  practitioners  in  Paris,  great 
hopes  of  Cesarini's  recovery  had  been  at  first  entertained.  Nor 
was  it  long,  indeed,  before  he  appeared  entirely  restored ;  so 
far  as  the  external  and  superficial  tokens  of  sanity  could  indi- 
cate a  cure.  He  testified  complete  consciousness  of  the  kind- 
ness of  his  relations,  and  clear  remembrance  of  the  past ;  but 
to  the  incoherent  ravings  of  delirium,  an  intense  melancholy, 
still  more  deplorable,  succeeded.  In  this  state,  however,  he 
became  once  more  the  inmate  of  his  brother-in-law's  house ; 
and,  though  avoiding  all  societ)'^,  except  that  of  Teresa,  whose 
affectionate  nature  never  wearied  of  its  cares,  he  resumed  many 
of  his  old  occupations.  Again  he  appeared  to  take  delight  in 
desultory  and  unprofitable  studies,  and  in  the  cultivation  of 
that  luxury  of  solitary  men,  "the  thankless  muse."  By  shun- 
ning all  topics  connected  with  the  gloomy  cause  of  his  affliction, 
and  talking  rather  of  the  sweet  recollections  of  Italy  and  child- 
hood than  of  more  recent  events,  his  sister  was  enabled  to 
soothe  the  dark  hour,  and  preserve  some  kind  of  influence  over 
the  ill-fated  man.  One  day,  however,  there  fell  into  his  hands 
an  English  newspaper,  which  was  full  of  the  praises  of  Lord 
Vargrave  ;  and  the  article,  in  lauding  the  peer,  referred  to  his 
services  as  the  commoner  Lumley  Ferrers. 

This  incident,  slight  as  it  appeared,  and  perfectly  untrare- 


200  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

able  by  his  relations/produced  a  visible  effect  on  Cesarini ;  and 
three  days  afterward  he  attempted  his  own  life.  The  failure 
of  the  attempt  was  followed  by  the  fiercest  paroxysms.  His 
disease  returned  in  all  its  dread  force  ;  and  it  became  neces- 
sary to  place  him  under  yet  stricter  confinement  than  he  had 
endured  before.  Again,  about  a  year  from  the  date  now  en- 
tered upon,  he  had  appeared  to  recover  ;  and  again  he  was  re- 
moved to  De  Montaigne's  house.  His  relations  were  not  aware 
of  the  influence  which  Lord  Vargrave's  name  exercised  over 
Cesarini ;  in  the  melancholy  tale  communicated  to  them  by 
Maltravers,  that  name  had  not  been  mentioned.  If  Maltravers 
had  at  one  time  entertained  some  vague  suspicions  that  Lum- 
ley  had  acted  a  treacherous  part  with  regard  to  Florence,  those 
suspicions  had  long  since  died  away  for  want  of  confirmation  ; 
nor  did  he  (nor  did  therefore  the  De  Montaignes)  connect  Lord 
Vargrave  with  the  affliction  of  Cesarini.  De  Montaigne  him- 
self, therefore,  one  day  at  dinner,  alluding  to  a  question  of  for- 
eign politics  which  had  been  debated  that  morning  in  the 
Chamber,  and  in  which  he  himself  had  taken  an  active  part, 
happened  to  refer  to  a  speech  of  Vargrave's  upon  the  subject, 
which  had  made  some  sensation  abroad,  as  well  as  at  home. — 
Teresa  asked  innocently  who  Lord  Vargrave  was  ?  and  De 
Montaigne,  well  acquainted  with  the  biography  of  the  princi- 
pal English  statesmen,  replied,  that  he  had  commenced  his 
career  as  Mr.  Ferrers,  and  reminded  Teresa  that  they  had  once 
been  introduced  to  him  in  Paris.  Cesarini  suddenly  rose  and 
left  the  room  ;  his  absence  was  not  noted — for  his  comings  and 
goings  were  ever  strange  and  fitful.  Teresa  soon  afterward 
quitted  the  apartment  with  her  children,  and  De  Montaigne, 
who  was  rather  fatigued  by  the  exertions  and  excitement  of  the 
morning,  stretched  himself  in  his  chair  to  enjoy  a  short  siesta. 
He  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  feeling  of  pain  and  suffoca- 
tion— awakened  in  time  to  struggle  against  a  strong  gripe  that 
had  fastened  itself  at  his  throat.  The  room  was  darkened  in 
the  growing  shades  of  the  evening  ;  and,  but  for  the  glittering 
and  savage  eyes  that  were  fixed  on  him,  he  could  scarcely  dis- 
cern his  assailant.  He  at  length  succeeded,  however,  in  free- 
ing himself,  and  casting  the  intended  assassin  on  the  ground. 
He  shouted  for  assistance ;  and  the  lights,  borne  by  the  ser- 
vants who  rushed  into  the  room,  revealed  to  him  the  face  of 
his  brother-in-law  !  Cesarini,  though  in  strong  convulsions, 
still  uttered  cries  and  imprecations  of  revenge  ;  he  denounced 
De  Montaigne  as  a  traitor  and  a  murderer  !  In  the  dark  con- 
fusion of  his  naind,  be  bad  mistaken  the  guardian  for  the  di§* 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  20I 

tant  foe,  whose  name  sufficed  to  conjure  up  the  phantoms  of 
the  dead,  and  plunge  reason  into  fury. 

It  was  now  clear  that  there  was  danger  and  death  in  Cesa- 
rini's  disease.  His  madness  was  pronounced  to  be  capable  of 
no  certain  and  permanent  cure  :  he  was  placed  at  a  new  asy- 
lum (the  superintendents  of  which  were  celebrated  for  human- 
ity as  well  as  skill),  a  little  distance  from  Versailles,  and  there 
he  still  remained.  Recently  his  lucid  intervals  had  become 
more  frequent  and  prolonged  ;  but  trifles  that  sprung  from  his 
own  mind,  and  which  no  care  could  prevent  or  detect,  sufficed 
to  renew  his  calamity  in  all  its  fierceness.  At  such  times  ha 
required  the  most  unrelaxing  vigilance,  for  his  madness  ever 
took  an  alarming  and  ferocious  character  ;  and  had  he  been 
left  unshackled,  the  boldest  and  stoutest  of  the  keepers  would 
have  dreaded  to  enter  his  cell  unarmed,  or  alone. 

What  made  the  disease  of  the  mind  appear  more  melancholy 
and  confirmed  was,  that  all  this  time  the  frame  seemed  to  in- 
crease in  health  and  strength.  That  is  not  an  uncommon  case 
in  instances  of  mania — and  it  is  generally  the  worst  symptom. 
In  earlier  youth,  Cesarini  had  been  delicate  even  to  effeminacy  ; 
but  now  his  proportions  were  enlarged — his  form  (though  still 
lean  and  spare)  muscular  and  vigorous — as  if  in  the  torpor 
which  usually  succeeded  to  his  bursts  of  frenzy,  the  animal  por- 
tion gained  by  the  repose  or  disorganization  of  the  intellectual. 
When  in  his  better  and  calmer  moods,  in  which  indeed  none  but 
the  experienced  could  have  detected  his  malady — books  made 
his  chief  delight.  But  then  he  complained  bitterly,  if  briefly, 
of  the  confinement  he  endured — of  the  injustice  he  suffered  ; 
and  as,  shunning  all  companions,  he  walked  gloomily  amidst 
the  grounds  that  surrounded  that  House  of  Woe,  his  unseen 
guardians  beheld  him  clenching  his  hands,  as  at  some  vision- 
ary enemy ;  or  overheard  him  accuse  some  phantom  of  his 
brain  of  the  torments  he  endured. 

Though  the  reader  can  detect  in  Lumley  Ferrers  the  cause 
of  the  frenzy,  and  the  object  of  the  imprecation,  it  was  not  so 
with  the  De  Montaignes,  nor  with  the  patient's  keepers  and 
physicians  ;  for  in  his  delirium  he  seldom  or  never  gave  name 
to  the  shadows  that  he  invoked — not  even  to  that  of  Florence. 
It  is,  indeed,  no  unusual  characteristic  of  madness  to  shun,  as 
by  a  kind  of  cunning,  all  mention  of  the  names  of  those  by 
whom  the  madness  has  been  caused.  It  is  as  if  the  Unfortu- 
nates imagined  that  the  madness  might  be  undiscovered,  if  the 
images  connected  with  it  v/ere  unbetrayed. 

Such,  at  this  time,  was  the  wretched  state  of  the  man,  whose 


202  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

talents  had  promised  a  fair  and  honorable  career,  had  it  not  been 
the  wretched  tendency  of  his  mind,  from  boyhood  upward,  to 
pamper  every  unwholesome  and  unhallowed  feeling  as  a  token 
of  the  exuberance  of  genius.  •  De  Montaigne,  though  he  touched 
as  lightly  as  possible  upon  this  dark  domestic  calamity  in  his 
first  communications  with  Maltravers,  whose  conduct  in  that 
melancholy  tale  of  crime  and  woe  had,  he  conceived, been  stamped 
with  generosity  and  feeling, — still  betrayed  emotions  that  told 
how  much  his  peace  had  been  embittered. 

"I  seek  to  console  Teresa,"  said  he,  turning  away  his  manly 
head,  "and  to  point  out  all  the  blessings  yet  left  to  her  ;  but  that 
brother  so  beloved,  from  whom  so  much  was  so  vainly  expected! 
still  ever  and  ever,  though  she  strives  to  conceal  it  from  me,  this 
affliction  comes  back  to  her,  and  poisons  every  thought !  Oh  ! 
better  a  thousand  times  that  he  had  died  !  When  reason,  sense, 
almost  the  soul,  are  dead — how  dark  and  fiend-like  is  this  life 
that  remains  behind  !  And  if  it  should  be  in  the  blood — if  Te- 
resa's children — dreadful  thought !  " 

De  Montaigne  ceased,  thoroughly  overcome. 

"Do  not,  my  dear  friend,  so  fearfully  exaggerate  your  mis- 
fortune, great  as  it  is  ;  Cesarini's  disease  evidently  arose  from  no 
physical  conformation — it  was  but  the  crisis,  the  development, 
of  a  long-contracted  malady  of  mind — passions,  morbidly  in-. 
dulged — the  reasoning  faculty,  obstinately  neglected — and  yet 
too  he  may  recover.  The  farther  memory  recedes  from  the 
shock  he  has  sustained,  the  better  the  chance  that  his  mind  will 
regain  its  tone." 

De  Montaigne  wrung  his  friend's  hand — 

"It  is  strange  that  from  you  should  come  sympathy  and  com- 
fort!— you  whom  he  so  injured! — you  whom  his  folly  or  his  crime 
drove  from  your  proud  career,  and  your  native  soil!  But  Prov- 
idence will  yet,  I  trust,  redeem  the  evil  of  its  erring  creature, 
and  I  shall  yet  live  to  see  you  restored  to  hope  and  home,  a 
happy  husband,  an  honored  citizen  :  till  then,  I  feel  as  if  the 
curse  lingered  upon  my  race." 

"  Speak  not  thus — whatever  my  destiny,  I  have  recovered  from 
that  wound  ;  and  still,  De  Montaigne,  I  find  in  life  that  suffering 
succeeds  to  suffering,  and  disappointment  to  disappointment,  as 
wave  to  wave.  To  endure  is  tlie  only  philosophy — to  believe 
that  we  shall  live  again  in  a  brighter  planet,  is  the  only  hope 
that  our  reason  should  accept  from  our  desires." 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  203 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Monstra  evenerunt  mihi, 

Introit  in  sedes  ater  alienus  canis, 
Anguis  per  impluvium  decidit  de  tegulis, 
Gallina  cecinit  !  " — Terent.* 

With  his  constitutional  strength  of  mind,  and  conformably 
with  his  acquired  theories,  Maltravers  continued  to  struggle 
against  the  latest  and  strongest  passion  of  his  life.  It  might  be 
seen  in  the  paleness  of  his  brow,  and  that  nameless  expression 
of  suffering  which  betrays  itself  in  the  lines  about  the  mouth, 
that  his  health  was  affected  by  the  conflict  within  him  ;  and 
many  a  sudden  fit  of  absence  and  abstraction,  many  an  impa- 
tient sigh,  followed  by  a  forced  and  unnatural  gayety,  told  the 
observant  Valerie  that  he  was  the  prey  of  a  sorrow  he  was  too 
proud  to  disclose.  He  compelled  himself,  however,  to  take,  or 
to  affect,  an  interest  in  the  singular  phenomena  of  the  social  state 
around  him  ;  phenomena  that,  in  a  happier  or  serener  mood, 
would  indeed  have  suggested  no  ordinary  food  for  conjecture 
and  meditation. 

The  state  of  visible  transition  is  the  state  of  nearly  all  the  en- 
lightened communities  in  Europe.  But  nowhere  is  it  so  pro- 
nounced as  in  that  country  which  may  be  called  the  Heart  of 
European  Civilization.  There,  all,  to  which  the  spirit  of  society 
attaches  itself,  appears  broken,  vague,  and  half  developed — the 
Antique  in  ruins,  and  the  New  not  formed.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
only  country  in  which  the  Constructive  principle  has  not  kept 
pace  with  the  Destructive.  The  Has  Been  is  blotted  out — the 
To  Be  is  as  the  shadow  of  a  far  land  in  a  mighty  and  perturbed 
sea.f 

Maltravers,  who  for  several  years  had  not  examined  the  pro- 
gress of  modern  literature,  looked  with  mingled  feelings  of  sur- 
prise, distaste,  and  occasional  and  most  reluctant  admiration, 
on  the  various  works  which  the  successors  of  Voltaire  and 
Rousseau  have  produced,  and  are  pleased  to  call  the  offspring 
of  Truth  united  to  Romance. 

Profoundly  versed  in  the  mechanism  and  elements  of  those 
masterpieces  of  Germany  and  England,  from  which  tlie  French 
have  borrowed  so  largely,  while  pretending  to  be  original,  Mal- 
travers was  shocked  to  see  the  monsters  which  these  Franken- 

*  Prodigies  have  occurred  ;  a  strange  black  dog  came  into  the  house;  a  snake  glided  from 
the  tiles,  through  the  court;  the  hen  crowed. 

t  The  reader  will  remember  that  these  remarks  were  written  long  before  the  last  French 
Revolution,  and  when  the  dynasty  of  Louis  Philippe  was  generally  considered  most  secure. 


264  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYStERlES. 

steins  had  created  from  the  relics  and  offal  of  the  holiest  sepul- 
chres. The  head  of  a  giant  on  the  limbs  of  a  dwarf — incon- 
gruous members  jumbled  together — parts  fair  and  beautiful — 
the  whole  a  hideous  distortion  ! 

"It  may  be  possible,"  said  he  to  De  Montaigne,  "that  these 
works  are  admired  and  extolled  ;  but  how  they  can  be  vindi- 
cated by  the  examples  of  Shakespeare  and  Goethe,  or  even  of 
Byron,  who  redeemed  poor  and  melodramatic  conceptions  with  a 
manly  vigor  of  execution,  an  energy  and  completeness  of  pur- 
pose that  Dryden  himself  never  surpassed,  is  to  me  utterly  in- 
conceivable." 

"  I  allow  that  there  is  a  strange  mixture  of  fustian  and  maud- 
lin in  all  these  things,"  answered  De  Montaigne ;  "  but  they 
are  but  the  windfalls  of  trees  that  may  bear  rich  fruit  in  due 
season  ;  meanwhile,  any  new  school  is  better  than  eternal  imi- 
tations of  the  old.  As  for  critical  vindications  of  the  works 
themselves,  the  age  that  produces  the  phenomena  is  never  the 
age  to  classify  and  analyze  them.  We  have  had  a  deluge,  and 
now  new  creatures  spring  from  the  new  soil." 

"  An  excellent  simile  :  they  come  forth  from  slime  and  mud — 
fetid  and  crawling — unformed  and  monstrous.  I  grant  excep- 
tions ;  and  even  in  the  New  School,  as  it  is  called,  I  can  admire 
the  real  genius — the  vital  and  creative  power  of  Victor  Hugo, 
But  oh,  that  a  nation  which  has  known  a  Corneille  should  ever 

spawn  forth  a !     And  with  these  rickety  and  drivelling 

abortions — all  having  followers  and  adulators — your  Public  can 
still  bear  to  be  told  that  they  have  improved  wonderfully  on  the 
day  when   they  gave  laws  and   models  to  the   literature   of 

Europe; — they  can  bear  to  hear proclaimed  a  sublime 

genius  in  the  same  circles  which  sneer  down  Voltaire ! " 

Voltaire  is  out  of  fashion  in  France,  but  Rousseau  still  main- 
tains his  influence,  and  boasts  his  imitators.  Rousseau  was  the 
worse  man  of  the  two  ;  perhaps  he  was  also  the  more  dangerous 
writer.  But  his  reputation  is  more  durable,  and  sinks  deeper 
into  the  heart  of  his  nation;  and  the  danger  of  his  unstable  and 
capricious  doctrines  has  passed  away.  In  Voltaire  we  behold 
the  fate  of  all  writers  purely  destructive  ;  their  uses  cease  with 
the  evils  they  denounce.  But  Rousseau  sought  to  construct  as 
well  as  to  destroy ;  and  though  nothing  could  well  be  more 
absurd  than  his  constructions,  still  man  loves  to  look  back  and 
see  even  delusive  images — castles  in  the  air — reared  above  the 
waste  where  cities  have  been.  Rather  than  leave  even  a  burial- 
ground  to  solitude,  we  populate  it  with  ghosts. 

By  degrees,  however,  as  he  mastered  all  the  features  of  the 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  Sog 

French  literature,  Maltravers  became  more  tolerant  of  the 
present  defects,  and  more  hopeful  of  the  future  results.  He 
saw,  in  one  respect,  that  that  literature  carried  with  it  its  own 
ultimate  redemption. 

Its  general  characteristic — contra-distinguished  from  the  lit- 
erature of  the  old  French  classic  school — is  to  take  the  heart 
for  its  study  ;  to  bring  the  passions  and  feelings  into  action,  and 
let  the  Within  have  its  record  and  history  as  well  as  the  With- 
out. In  all  this,  our  contemplative  analyst  began  to  allow  that 
the  French  were  not  far  wrong  when  they  contended  that 
Shakespeare  made  the  fountain  of  their  inspiration — a  fountain 
which  the  majority  of  our  later  English  Fictionists  have  ne- 
glected. It  is  not  by  a  story  woven  of  interesting  incidents, 
relieved  by  delineations  of  the  externals  and  surface  of  char- 
acter, humorous  phraseology,  and  every-day  ethics,  that  Fiction 
achieves  its  grandest  ends. 

In  the  French  literature,  thus  characterized,  there  is  much  false 
morality,  much  depraved  sentiment,  and  much  hollow  rant. 
But  still  it  carries  within  it  the  germ  of  an  excellence  which, 
sooner  or  later,  must,  in  the  progress  of  national  genius,  arrive 
at  its  full  development. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  a  consolation  to  know  that  nothing  really 
immoral  is  ever  permanently  popular,  or  ever,  therefore,  long 
deleterious;  what  is  dangerous  in  a  work  of  genius  cures  itself 
in  a  few  years.  We  can  now  read  Werter,  and  instruct  our 
hearts  by  its  exposition  of  weakness  and  passion — our  taste  by 
its  exquisite  and  unrivalled  simplicity  of  construction  and  detail, 
without  any  fear  that  we  shall  shoot  ourselves  in  top-boots  !  We 
can  feel  ourselves  elevated  by  the  noble  sentiments  of  "  The 
Robbers,"  and  our  penetration  sharpened  as  to  the  wholesale 
immorality  of  conventional  cant  and  hypocrisy,  without  any 
danger  of  turning  banditti,  and  becoming  cut-throats  from  the 
love  of  virtue.  Providence,  that  has  made  the  genius  of  the 
few  in  all  times  and  countries  the  guide  and  prophet  of  the 
many  ;  and  appointed  Literature  as  the  sublime  agent  of  Civili- 
zation, of  Opinion,  and  of  Law,  has  endov/ed  the  elements  it 
employs  with  a  divine  power  of  self-purification.  The  stream 
settles  of  itself  by  rest  and  time;  the  impure  particles  fly  off,  or 
are  neutralized  by  the  healthful.  It  is  only  fools  that  call  the 
works  of  a  master-spirit  immoral.  There  does  not  exist  in  the 
literature  of  the  world  one  popular  book  that  is  immoral  two 
centuries  after  it  is  produced.  For,  in  the  heart  of  nations,  the 
False  does  not  live  so  long;  and  the  True  is  the  Ethical  to  the 
end  of  time. 


2o6  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 

From  the  literary,  Maltravers  turned  to  the  political  state  of 
France  his  curious  and  thoughtful  eye.  He  was  struck  by  the 
resemblance  which  this  nation — so  civilized,  so  thoroughly 
European — bears  in  one  respect  to  the  despotisms  of  the  East : 
the  convulsions  of  the  capital  decide  the  fate  of  the  country ; 
Paris  is  the  tyrant  of  France.  He  saw  in  this  inflammable  con- 
centration of  power,  which  must  ever  be  pregnant  with  great 
evils,  one  of  the  causes  why  the  revolutions  of  that  powerful 
and  polished  people  are  so  incomplete  and  unsatisfactory — why, 
like  Cardinal  Fleury,  system  after  system,  and  Government  after 
Government, 

*  *  "  floruit  sine  fructu, 

Defloruit  sine  iuctu."* 

Maltravers  regarded  it  as  a  singular  instance  of  perverse 
ratiocination,  that,  unwarned  by  experience,  the  French  should 
still  persist  in  perpetuating  this  political  vice ;  that  all  their 
policy  should  still  be  the  policy  of  Centralization — a  principle 
which  secures  the  momentary  strength,  but  ever  ends  in  the 
abrupt  destruction,  of  States.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  perilous  tonic, 
which  seems  to  brace  the  system,  but  drives  the  blood  to  the 
head — thus  come  apoplexy  and  madness.  By  centralization  the 
provinces  are  weakened,  it  is  true  ;  but  weak  to  assist  as  well 
as  to  oppose  a  Government — weak  to  withstand  a  mob.  No- 
where, nowadays,  is  a  mob  so  powerful  as  in  Paris ;  the  politi- 
cal history  of  Paris  is  the  history  of  mobs.  Centralization  is 
an  excellent  quackery  for  a  despot  who  desires  power  to  last 
only  his  own  life,  and  who  has  but  a  life  interest  in  the  State ; 
but  to  true  liberty  and  permanent  order,  centralization  is  a 
deadly  poison.  The  more  the  provinces  govern  their  own 
affairs,  the  more  we  find  everything,  even  to  roads  and  post- 
horses,  are  left  to  the  people  ;  the  nrore  the  Municipal  Spirit 
pervades  every  vein  of  the  vast  body,  the  more  certain  may  we 
be  that  reform  and  change  must  come  from  universal  opinion, 
which  is  slow,  and  constructs  ere  it  destroys — not  from  public 
clamor,  which  is  sudden,  and  not  only  pulls  down  the  edifice, 
but  sells  the  bricks  ! 

Another  peculiarity  in  the  French  Constitution  struck  and 
perplexed  Maltravers.  This  people,  so  pervaded  by  the  repub- 
lican sentiment — this  people,  who  had  sacrificed  so  much  for 
Freedom — this  people,  who,  in  the  name  of  Freedom,  had  per- 
petrated so  much  crime  with  Robespierre,  and  achieved  so 
much  glory  with  Napoleon — this  people  were,  as  a  people,  con- 
tented to  be  utterly  excluded  from  all  power  and  voice  in  the 

*  Flourished  without  fruit,  and  was  destroyed  without  regret. 


Alice  ;   or,  the  mysteries.  207 

State  !  Out  of  thirty-three  millions  of  subjects,  less  than  two 
hundred  thousand  electors  !  AVhere  was  there  ever  an  oligarchy 
equal  to  this  ?  What  a  strange  infatuation,  to  demolish  an 
aristocracy  and  yet  to  exclude  a  people  !  What  an  anomaly  in 
political  architecture,  to  build  an  inverted  pyramid  !  Where 
was  the  safety-valve  of  governments — where  the  natural  events 
of  excitement  in  a  population  so  inflammable  ?  The  people 
itself  were  left  a  mob  :  no  stake  in  the  State — no  action  in  its 
affairs — no  legislative  interest  in  its  security.* 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  singular  to  see  how — the  aristoc- 
racy of  birth  broken  down — the  aristocracy  of  letters  had  arisen. 
A  Peerage,  half  composed  of  journalists,  philosophers,  and 
authors  !  This  was  the  beau  icUal  of  Algernon  Sydney's  Aris- 
tocratic Republic  ;  of  the  Helvetian  visions  of  what  ought  to 
be  the  dispensation  of  public  distinctions  ;  yet  was  it,  after  all, 
a  desirable  aristocracy  ?  Did  society  gain  ? — did  literature 
lose  ?  Was  the  Priesthood  of  Genius  made  more  sacred  and 
more  pure  by  these  worldly  decorations  and  hollow  titles  ? — or 
was  aristocracy  itself  thus  rendered  a  more  disinterested,  a 
more  powerful,  or  more  sagacious  element  in  the  administration 
of  law  or  the  elevation  of  opinion  ?  These  questions,  not 
lightly  to  be  answered,  could  not  fail  to  arouse  the  speculation 
and  curiosity  of  a  man  who  had  been  familiar  with  the  closet 
and  the  forum  ;  and  in  proportion  as  he  found  his  interest  ex- 
cited in  these  problems  to  be  solved  by  a  foreign  nation,  did  the 
thoughtful  Englishman  feel  the  old  instinct — which  binds  the 
citizen  to  the  father-land — begin  to  stir  once  more  earnestly 
and  vividly  within  him. 

"  You,  yourself  individually,  are  passing,  like  us,"  said  De 
Montaigne  one  day  to  Maltravers,  "  through  a  state  of  transi- 
tion. You  have  forever  left  the  Ideal,  and  you  are  carrying 
your  cargo  of  experience  over  to  the  Practical.  When  you 
reach  that  haven,  you  will  have  completed  the  development  of 
your  forces." 

"  You  mistake  me  ;  I  am  but  a  spectator." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  desire  to  go  behind  the  scenes.  And  he  who 
once  grows  familiar  with  the  green-room  longs  to  be  an  actor." 

With  Madame  de  Ventadour  and  the  De  Montaignes  Mal- 
travers passed  the  chief  part  of  his  time.  They  knew  how  to 
appreciate  his  nobler  and  to  love  his  gentler  attributes  and 
qualities  ;  they  united  in  a  warm  interest  for  his  future  fate  ; 
they  combated  his  Philosophy  of  Inaction  ;  and  they  felt  that 
it  was  because  he  was  not  happy  that  he  was  not  wise.     Expe- 

♦  Has  not  all  this  proved  prophetic  f 


208  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES, 

rience  was  to  him  what  ignorance  had  been  to  Alice.  His 
faculties  were  chilled  and  dormant.  As  affection  to  those  who 
are  unskilled  in  all  things,  so  is  affection  to  those  who  despair  of 
all  things.   The  mind  of  Maltravers  was  a  world  without  a  sun  ! 


CHAPTER  HI. 

"Coelebs  quid  agam."  * — HoRAT. 

In  a  room  at  Fenton's  Hotel  sate  Lord  Vargrave  and  Caro- 
line Lady  Doltimore — two  months  after  the  marriage  of  the 
latter. 

"  Doltimore  has  positively  fixed,  then,  to  go  abroad,  on  your 
return  from  Cornwall  ?  " 

"  Positively — to  Paris.  You  can  join  us  at  Christmas,  I 
trust  ? " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  ;  and  before  then  I  hope  that  I  shall 
have  arranged  certain  public  matters,  which  at  present  harass 
and  absorb  me  even  more  than  my  private  affairs." 

"You  have  managed  to  obtain  terms  with  Mr.  Douce  and  to 
delay  the  repayment  of  your  debt  to  him  ?  " 

"Yes, I  hope  so,  till  I  touch  Miss  Cameron's  income,  which 
will  be  mine,  I  trust,  by  the  time  she  is  eighteen." 

"You  mean  the  forfeit  money  of  ;;^30,ooo?" 

"  Not  I  ! — I  mean  what  I  said  !  " 

"  Can  you  really  imagine  she  v/ill  still  accept  your  hand  ?" 

"  With  your  aid,  I  do  imagine  it !  Hear  me.  You  must 
take  Evelyn  with  you  to  Paris.  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  she 
will  be  delighted  to  accompany  you  ;  nay,  I  have  paved  the 
way  so  far.  For,  of  course,  as  a  friend  of  the  family  and  guard- 
ian to  Evelyn,  I  have  maintained  a  correspondence  with  Lady 
Vargrave.  She  informs  me  that  Evelyn  has  been  unwell  and 
low-spirited  ;  that  she  fears  Brook-Green  is  dull  for  her,  etc. 
I  wrote,  in  reply,  to  say  that  the  more  my  ward  saw  of  the 
world,  prior  to  her  accession,  when  of  age,  to  the  position  she 
would  occupy  in  it,  the  more  slie  would  fulfil  my  late  uncle's 
wishes  Avith  respect  to  her  education,  and  so  forth.  I  added 
that,  as  you  were  going  to  Paris — and  as  you  loved  her  so  much — 
there  could  not  be  a  better  opportunity  for  her  entrance  into 
life,  under  the  most  favorable  auspices.  Lady  Vargrave's  an- 
swer to  this  letter  arrived  this  morning  ;  she  will  consent  to 
such  an  arrangement,  should  you  propose  it." 

♦  What  shall  I  do,  a  bachelor  ? 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES,  209 

"  But  what  good  will  result  to  yourself  in  this  project  ? — at 
Paris  you  will  be  sure  of  rivals,  and — " 

"Caroline,"  interrupted  Lord  Vargrave,  "  I  know  very  well 
what  you  would  say  ;  I  also  know  all  the  danger  I  must  incur. 
But  it  is  a  choice  of  evils  ;  and  I  choose  the  least.  You  see 
that  while  she  is  at  Brook-Green,  and  under  the  eye  of  that  sly 
old  curate,  I  can  effect  nothing  with  her.  There,  she  is  entirely 
removed  from  my  influence  ; — not  so  abroad — not  so  under 
your  roof.  Listen  to  me  still  further.  In  this  country,  and 
especially  in  the  seclusion  and  shelter  of  Brook-Green,  I  have 
no  scope  for  any  of  those  means  which  I  shall  be  compelled  to 
resort  to,  in  failure  of  all  else." 

"  What  can  you  intend  ?"  said  Caroline,  with  a  slight 
shudder. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  intend  yet.  But  this,  at  least,  I  can 
tell  you — that  Miss  Cameron's  fortune  I  must  and  will  have. 
I  am  a  desperate  man,  and  I  can  play  a  desperate  game,  if 
need  be." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  /will  aid — will  abet." 

"Hush!  not  so  loud!  Yes,  Caroline,  you  will,  and  you 
must,  aid  and  abet  me  in  any  project  I  may  form." 

"  Must !     Lord  Vargrave  ?  " 

"Ay  !"  said  Lumley,  with  a  smile,  and  sinking  his  voice  into 
a  whisper  ;  "  ay  ! — you  are  in  my  power  !  " 

"Traitor! — you  cannot  dare — you  cannot  mean — !" 

"  I  mean  nothing  more  than  to  remind  you  of  the  ties  that 
exist  between  us — ties  which  ought  to  render  us  the  firmest 
and  most  confidential  of  friends.  Come,  Caroline,  recollect  all 
the  benefits  must  not  lie  on  one  side  ;  I  have  obtained  for  you 
rank  and  wealth  ;  I  have  procured  you  a  husband — you  must 
help  me  to  a  wife  ! " 

Caroline  sunk  back,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"I  allow,"  continued  Vargrave,  coldly — "I  allow  that  your 
beauty  and  talent  were  sufficient  of  themselves  to  charm  a  wiser 
man  than  Doltimore  ;  but  had  I  not  suppressed  jealousy — 
sacrificed  love — had  I  dropped  a  hint  to  your  liege  lord — nay, 
had  I  not  fed  his  lap-dog  vanity  by  all  the  cream  and  sugar  of 
flattering  falsehoods — you  would  be  Caroline  Merton  still ! " 

"Oh!  would  that  I  were!  Oh!  that  I  were  anything  but 
your  tool — your  victim  !  Fool  that  I  was ! — wretch  that  I  am  ! 
I  am  rightly  punished  !  " 

"  Forgive  me — forgive  me,  dearest,"  said  Vargrave  soothingly  ; 
"I  was  to  blame,  forgive  me  :  but  you  irritated,  you  maddened 
me,  by  your  seeming  indifference  to  my  prosperity — my  fate. 


2IO  ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

I  tell  you  again  and  again,  pride  of  my  soul,  I  tell  you,  that 
you  are  the  only  being  1  love  !  and  if  you  will  allow  me,  if  you 
will  rise  superior,  as  I  once  fondly  hoped,  to  all  the  cant  and 
prejudice  of  convention  and  education — the  only  woman  I 
could  ever  respect,  as  well  as  love  !  Oh,  hereafter,  when  you 
see  me  at  that  height  to  which  I  feel  that  I  am  born  to  climb, 
let  me  think  that  to  your  generosity,  your  affection,  your  zeal, 
I  owed  the  ascent :  at  present  I  am  on  the  precipice — without 
your  hand  I  fall  for  ever.  My  own  fortune  is  gone — the  miser- 
able forfeit  due  to  me,  if  Evelyn  continues  to  reject  my  suit, 
when  she  has  arrived  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  is  deeply  mortgaged. 
I  am  engaged  in  vast  and  daring  schemes,  in  which  I  may  either 
rise  to  the  highest  station  or  lose  that  which  I  now  hold.  In 
either  case,  how  necessary  to  me  is  wealth  :  in  the  one  instance, 
to  maintain  my  advancement;  in  the  other,  to  redeem  my  fall." 

"But  did  you  not  tell  me,"  said  Caroline,  "  that  Evelyn  pro- 
posed and  promised  to  place  her  fortune  at  your  disposal,  even 
while  rejecting  your  hand?" 

"  Absurd  mockery  ! "  exclaimed  Vargrave  ;  "  the  foolish  boast 
of  a  girl — an  impulse  liable  to  every  caprice.  Can  you  suppose, 
that  when  she  launches  into  the  extravagance  natural  to  her 
age,  and  necessary  to  her  position,  she  will  not  find  a  thousand 
demands  upon  her  rent-roll  not  dreamt  of  now  ?  a  thousand 
vanities  and  baubles,  that  will  soon  erase  my  poor  and  hollow 
claim  from  her  recollection  ?  Can  you  suppose  that,  if  she 
marry  another,  her  husband  will  ever  consent  to  a  child's 
romance  ?  And  even  were  all  this  possible,  were  it  possible 
that  girls  were  not  extravagant,  and  that  husbands  had  nocom- 
monsense,  is  it  for  me.  Lord  Vargrave,  to  be  a  mendicant  upon 
reluctant  bounty?  a  poor  cousin — a  pensioned  led-captain? 
Heaven  knows  I  have  as  little  false  pride  as  any  man,  but  still  this 
is  a  degradation  I  cannot  stoop  to.  Besides,  Caroline,  I  am  no 
miser,  no  Harpagon :  I  do  not  want  wealth  for  wealth's  sake, 
but  for  the  advantages  it  bestows — respect — honor — position  ; 
and  these  I  get  as  the  husband  of  the  great  heiress.  Should  I 
get  them  as  her  dependant  ?  No :  for  more  than  six  years  I 
have  built  my  schemes  and  shaped  my  conduct,  according  to 
one  assured  and  definite  object ;  and  that  object  I  shall  not 
now  in  the  eleventh  hour  let  slip  from  ray  hands.  Enough  of 
this:  you  will  pass  Brook-Green  in  returning  from  Cornwall — 
you  will  take  Evelyn  with  you  to  Paris — leave  the  rest  to  me. 
Fear  no  folly,  no  violence,  from  my  plans,  whatever  they  may 
be :  I  work  in  the  dark.  Nor  do  I  despair  that  Evelyn  will 
love,  that  Evelyn  will  voluntarily  accept,  me  yet:  my  disposition 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  211 

is  sanguine ;    I  look   to    the   bright   side   of  things : — do  the 
same ! " 

Here  their  conference  was  interrupted  by  Lord  Doltimore, 
who  lounged  carelessly  into  the  room,  with  his  hat  on  one  side. 
"Ah!  Vargrave,  how  are  you  ?  You  will  not  forget  the  letters 
of  introduction?     Where  are  you  going,  Caroline?" 

"  Only  to  my  own  room,  to  put  on  my  bonnet ;  the  carriage 
will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes."     And  Caroline  escaped. 

"So  you  go  to  Cornwall  to-morrow,  Doltimore?" 

"Yes — cursed  bore!  but  Lady  Elizabeth  insists  on  seeing  us, 
and  I  don't  object  to  a  week's  good  shooting.  The  old  lady, 
too,  has  something  to  leave,  and  Caroline  had  no  dowry :  not 
that  I  care  for  it;  but  still  marriage  is  expensive." 

"By  the  by,  you  will  want  the  five  thousand  pounds  you  lent 
me?" 

"Why,  whenever  it  is  convenient." 

"Say  no  more — it  shall  be  seen  to.  Doltimore,  I  am  very 
anxious  that  Lady  Doltimore's  dSiit  aX  Paris  should  be  brilliant : 
everything  depends  on  falling  into  the  right  set.  For  myself, 
I  don't  care  about  fashion,  and  never  did  :  but  if  I  were  mar- 
ried, and  an  idle  man  like  you,  it  might  be  different." 

"Oh,  you  will  be  very  useful  to  us  when  we  return  to  London. 
INIeanwhiie,  you  know,  you  have  my  proxy  in  the  Lords.  I 
dare  say  there  will  be  some  sharp  work  the  first  week  or  two 
after  the  recess." 

"Very  likely ;  and  depend  on  one  thing,  my  dear  Doltimore, 
that  when  I  am  in  the  Cabinet,  a  certain  friend  of  mine  shall 
be  an  earl.     Adieu." 

"Good-bye,  my  dear  Vargrave,  good-bye — and,  I  say, — I  say, 
don't  distress  yourself  about  that  trifle — a  few  months  hence, 
it  will  suit  me  just  as  well." 

"Thanks — I  will  just  look  into  my  accounts,  and  use  you 
without  ceremony.  Well — I  dare  say  we  shall  meet  at  Paris. 
Oh,  I  forgot ! — I  observe  that  you  have  renewed  your  intimacy 
with  Legard.  Now  he  is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  I  gave  him 
that  place  to  oblige  you — still,  as  you  are  no  longer  z.gargon — 
but  perhaps  I  shall  offend  you?" 

"  Not  at  all.     What  is  there  against  Legard  ?" 

"  Nothing  in  the  world — but  he  is  a  bit  of  a  boaster.  I  dare 
say  his  ancestor  was  a  Gascon — poor  fellow  !— and  he  affects 
to  say  that  you  can't  choose  a  coat,  or  buy  a  horse,  without  his 
approval  and  advice — that  he  can  turn  you  round  his  finger. 
Now  this  hurts  your  consequence  in  the  world — you  don't  get 
credit  for  your  own  excellent  sense  and  taste.     Take  my  advice, 


212  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

avoid  these  young  hangers-on  of  fashion — these  club-room  lions. 
Having  no  importance  of  their  own,  they  steal  the  importance 
of  their  friends,      Verbum  sap.'' 

"  You  are  very  right — Legard  is  a  coxcomb  ;  and  now  I  see 
why  he  talked  of  joining  us  at  Paris." 

"  Don't  let  him  do  any  such  thing ! — he  will  be  telling  the 
Frenchmen  that  her  ladyship  is  in  love  with  him — ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Ha !  ha  ! — a  very  good  joke — poor  Caroline  ! — very  good 
joke !  " 

"Well,  good-bye  once  more  ;"  and  Vargrave  closed  the  door. 

"  Legard  go  to  Paris — not  if  Evelyn  goes  there  !  "  muttered 
Lumley.  "  Besides,  I  want  no  partner  in  the  little  that  one  can 
screw  out  of  this  blockhead." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Mr.  Bumblecase,  a  word  with  you — I  have  a  little  business." 
"  Farewell,  the  goodly  Manor  of  Blackacre,  with  all  its  woods,  underwoods, 
and  appurtenances  whatever." — Wycherlev  :  Plain  Dealer. 

In  quitting  Fenton's  Hotel,  Lord  Vargrave  entered  into  one 
of  the  clubs  in  St.  James's  Street:  this  was  rather  unusual  with 
him,  for  he  was  not  a  club  man.  It  was  not  his  system  to  spend 
his  time  for  nothing.  But  it  was  a  wet  December  day — the 
House  not  yet  assembled,  and  he  had  done  his  official  business. 
Here,  as  he  was  munching  a  biscuit  and  reading  an  article  in 
one  of  the  ministerial  papers — the  heads  of  which  he  himself 
had  supplied — Lord  Saxingham  joined  and  drew  him  to  the 
window. 

"  I  have  reason  to  think,"  said  the  Earl,  "that  your  visit  to 
Windsor  did  good." 

"  Ah,  indeed  ;  so  I  fancied." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  a  certain  personage  will  ever  consent  to 

the question  ;  and  the   premier,  whom  [  saw  to-day,  seems 

chafed  and  irritated." 

"Nothing  can  be  better — I  know  that  we  are  in  the  right  boat." 

"I  hope  it  is  not  true,  Lumley,  that  your  marriage  with  Miss 
Cameron  is  broken  off  ;  such  was  the  on  dit  in  the  club,  just  be- 
fore you  entered." 

"  Contradict,  it  my  dear  lord — contradict  it.  I  hope  by  the 
spring  to  introduce  Lady  Vargrave  to  you.  But  who  broached 
the  absurd  report  ?  " 

"  Why,  your  prot^g^,  Legard,  says  he  heard  so  from  his  uncle, 
who  heard  it  from  Sir  John  Merton." 


ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  213 

"  Legardis  a  puppy,  and  Sir  John  Merton  a  jackass.  I.egard 
had  better  attend  to  his  office,  if  he  wants  to  get  on;  and  I  wish 
you'd  tell  him  so.  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  he  talks  of 
going  to  Paris — you  can  just  hint  to  him  that  he  must  give  up 
such  idle  habits.  Public  functionaries  are  not  now  what  they 
were — people  are  expected  to  work  for  the  money  they  pocket — 
otherwise  Legard  is  a  cleverish  fellow,  and  deserves  promotion. 
A  word  or  two  of  caution  from  you  will  do  him  a  vast  deal  of 
good." 

"  Be  sure  I  will  lecture  him.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-day, 
Lumley  ? " 

"  No.  I  expect  my  co-trustee,  Mr.  Douce,  on  matters  of  bus- 
iness— a  /S/e-d-^e/e  dinner." 

LordVargrave  had,  as  he  conceived,  very  cleverly  talked  over 
Mr.  Douce  into  letting  his  debt  to  that  gentleman  run  on  for 
the  present ;  and,  in  the  mean  while,  he  had  overwhelmed  Mr. 
Douce  with  his  condescensions.  That  gentleman  had  twice 
dined  with  Lord  Vargrave ;  and  Lord  Vargrave  had  twice 
dined  with  him.  The  occasion  of  the  present  more  familiar 
entertainment  was  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Douce,  begging  to  see 
Lord  Vargrave  on  particular  business  ;  and  Vargrave,  who  by 
no  means  liked  the  word  business  from  a  gentleman  to  whom  he 
owed  money,  thought  that  it  would  go  off  more  smoothly  if 
sprinkled  with  champagne. 

Accordingly,  he  begged  "  My  dear  Mr.  Douce  "  to  excuse 
ceremony,  and  dine  with  him  on  Thursday,  at  seven  o'clock — 
he  was  really  so  busy  all  the  mornings. 

At  seven  Mr.  Douce  came.  The  moment  he  entered,  Vargrave 
called  out,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "Dinner  immediately!" 
And  as  the  little  man  bowed,  and  shuffled,  and  fidgeted,  and 
wriggled  (while  Vargrave  shook  him  by  the  hand),  as  if  he 
thought  he  was  going  himself  to  be  spitted, — his  host  said  : 
"  With  your  leave,  we'll  postpone  the  budget  till  after  dinner. 
It  is  the  fashion  nowadays  to  postpone  budgets  as  long  as  we 
can — eh  ?  Well,  and  how  are  all  at  home  ?  Devilish  cold ;  is 
it  not  ?  So  you  go  to  your  villa  every  day  ? — That's  what  keeps 
you  in  such  capital  health.  You  know  I  had  a  villa  too — though 
I  never  had  time  to  go  there." 

"  Ah,  yes — I  think,  I  remember,  at — at  Ful-Full-Fulham  ! " 
gasped  out  Mr,  Douce.  "  Your  poor  uncle's — now  Lady  Var- 
Var-Vargrave's  jointure  house. — So — so — " 

"  She  don't  live  there  !  "  burst  in  Vargrave  (far  too  impatient 
to  be  polite).  "  Too  cockneyfied  for  her — gave  it  up  to  me — 
very  pretty  place,  but  d — d  expensive.     I  could  not  afford  it — 


214  Alice;   or,  the  mysteries. 

never  went  there — and  so  I  have  let  it  to  my  wine-mer- 
chant ;  the  rent  just  pays  his  bill.  You  will  taste  some  of  the 
sofas  and  tables  to-day  in  his  champagne  !  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  I  always  fancy  my  sherry  smells  like  my  poor  uncle's 
old  leather  chair:  very  odd  smell  it  had — a  kind  of  respectable 
smell !     I  hope  you're  hungry — dinner's  ready." 

Vargrave  thus  rattled  away  in  order  to  give  the  good  banker 
to  understand  that  his  affairs  were  in  most  tiourishing  condition  ; 
and  he  continued  to  keep  up  the  ball  all  dinner-time,  slopping 
Mr.  Douce's  little,  miserable,  gasping,  dace-like  moijth,  with  '*  A 
glass  of  wine,  Douce  !"  or  "  By  the  by,  Douce,"  whenever  he 
saw  that  worthy  gentleman  about  to  make  the  ^schylean 
improvement  of  a  second  person  in  the  dialogue. 

At  length,  dinner  being  fairly  over,  and  the  servants  with- 
drawn, Lord  Vargrave,  knowing  that  sooner  or  later  Douce 
would  have  his  say,  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  put  his  feet  on 
the  fender,  and  cried,  as  he  tossed  off  his  claret,  '*  Now,  Douce, 

WHAT  CAN  1  DO  FOR  YOU  ?  " 

Mr.  Douce  opened  his  eyes  to  their  full  extent,  and  then  as 
rapidly  closed  them  ;  and  this  operation  he  continued  till,  having 
snuffed  them  so  much  that  they  could  by  no  possibility  burn  any 
brighter,  he  was  convinced  that  he  had  not  misunderstood  his 
lordship. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  be  began,  in  his  most  frightened  manner, 
"  indeed — I — really  your  lordship  is  very  good — I — wanted  to 
speak  to  you  on  business." 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you — some  little  favor,  eh  ?  Snug 
sinecure  for  a  favorite  clerk,  or  a  place  in  the  Stamp  Office  for 
your  fat  footman — John,  I  think  you  call  hira  ?  You  know,  my 
dear  Douce,  you  may  command  me," 

"  Oh,  indeed — you  are  all  good-good-goodness — but — but — " 

Vargrave  threw  himself  back,  and  shutting  his  eyes  and 
pursing  up  his  mouth,  resolutely  suffered  Mr.  Douce  to  un- 
bosom himself  without  interruption.  He  was  considerably 
relieved  to  find  that  the  business  referred  to  related  only 
to  Miss  Cameron.  Mr.  Douce  having  reminded  Lord  Var- 
grave, as  he  had  often  done  before,  of  the  wishes  of  his 
imcle,  that  the  greater  portion  of  the  money  bequeathed  to 
Evelyn  should  be  invested  in  land,  proceeded  to  say  that  a 
most  excellent  opportunity  presented  itself  for  such  a  purchase 
as  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  the  late  lord.  A  superb 
place,  in  the  style  of  Blickling — deer-park  six  miles  round — 
10,000  acres  of  land,  bringing  in  a  clear  ^  8000  a  year — purchase- 
money  only  jC^  240,000.     The  whole  estate  was,  indeed,  much 


ALICE  :     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  215 

larger — 18,000  acres  ;  but  then  the  more  distant  farms  could  be 
sold  in  different  lots,  in  order  to  meet  the  exact  sum  Miss 
Cameron's  trustees  were  enabled  to  invest. 

"Well,"  said  Vargrave,  "and  where  is  it?  My  poor  uncle 
was  after  De  Clifford's  estate,  but  the  title  was  not  good." 

"Oh!  this — is  much — much — much  fi-fi-finer  ; — famous  in- 
vestment— but  rather  far  off — in — in  the  north.  Li-Li-Lisle 
Court," 

"  Lisle  Court !  Why,  does  not  that  belong  to  Colonel  Mal- 
travers?" 

"  Yes.  It  is,  indeed,  quite,  I  may  say,  a  secret — yes — really — a 
se-se-secret — not  in  the  market  yet — notatall — soon  snapped  up." 

"  Humph  !     Has  Colonel  Maltravers  been  extravagant?" 

"  No — but  he  does  not — I  hear — or  rather  Lady — Julia — so 
I'm  told,  yes,  indeed — does  not  li-like — going  so  far,  and  so  they 
spend  the  winter  in  Italy  instead.  Yes — very  odd — very  fine 
place." 

Lumley  was  slightly  acquainted  with  the  elder  brother  of  his 
old  friend — a  man  who  possessed  some  of  Ernest's  faults — very 
proud,  and  very  exacting,  and  very  fastidious : — but  all  these 
faults  were  developed  in  the  ordinary  commonplace  world,  and 
were  not  the  refined  abstractions  of  his  younger  brother. 

Colonel  Maltravers  had  continued,  since  he  entered  the  Guards, 
to  be  thoroughly  the  man  of  fashion,  and  nothing  more.  But  rich 
and  wellborn,  and  highly  connected,  and  thoroughly  d.  la  mode 
as  he  was,  his  pride  made  him  uncomfortable  in  London,  while 
his  fastidiousness  made  him  uncomfortable  in  the  country.  He 
was  rather  a  great  person,  but  he  wanted  to  be  a  very  great  per- 
son. This  he  was  at  Lisle  Court ;  but  that  did  not  satisfy  him — 
he  wanted  not  only  to  be  a  very  great  person,  but  a  very  great 
person  among  very  great  persons — and  squires  and  parsons  bored 
liirn.  Lady  Julia,  his  wife,  was  a  fine  lady,  inane  and  pretty, 
who  saw  everything  through  her  husband's  eyes.  He  was  quite 
master  chez  lui,  was  Colonel  Maltravers  !  He  lived  a  great  deal 
abroad — for  on  the  continent  his  large  income  seemed  princely, 
while  his  high  character,  thorough  breeding,  and  personal  ad- 
vantages, which  were  remarkable,  secured  him  a  greater  posi- 
tion in  foreign  courts  than  at  his  own.  Two  things  had  already 
disgusted  him  with  Lisle  Court — trifles  they  might  be  with 
others,  but  they  were  not  trifles  to  Cuthbert  Maltravers  ; — in  the 
first  place,  a  man  who  had  been  his  father's  attorney,  and  who 
was  the  very  incarnation  of  coarse,  unrepellible  familiarity,  had 
bought  an  estate  close  by  the  said  Lisle  Court,  and  had,  horresco 
referens,  been  made  a  baronet !     Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  took  pre 


2l6  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

cedence  of  Colonel  Maltravers  !  He  could  not  ride  out  but  he 
met  Sir  Gregory  ;  he  could  not  dine  out  but  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  walking  behind  Sir  Gregory's  bright  blue  coat  with  its  bright 
brass  buttons.  In  his  last  visit  to  Lisle  Court,  which  he  had 
then  crowded  with  all  manner  of  fine  people,  he  had  seen — the 
very  first  morning  after  his  arrival — seen  from  the  large  window 
of  his  state  saloon,  a  great  staring  white,  red,  blue,  and  gilt  thing, 
at  the  end  of  the  stately  avenue  planted  by  Sir  Guy  Maltravers 
ill  honor  of  the  Victory  over  the  Spanish  Armada.  He  looked 
in  mute  surprise,  and  everybody  else  looked  ;  and  a  polite  Ger- 
man Count,  gazing  through  his  eyeglass,  said,  "Ah  !  dat  is  vat 
you  call  a  vim  in  your  pays — the  vim  of  Colonel  Maltravers!" 

This  "vim"  was  the  pagoda  summer-house  of  Sir  Gregory 
Gubbins — erected  in  imitation  of  the  Pavilion  at  Brighton. 
Colonel  Maltravers  was  miserable — the  vim  haunted  him — it 
seemed  ubiquitious — he  could  not  escape  it — it  was  built  on  the 
highest  spot  in  the  county, — ride,  walk,  sit  where  he  would, 
the  vim  stared  at  him  ;  and  he  thought  he  saw  little  Mandarins 
shake  their  round  little  heads  at  him.  This  was  one  of  the  great 
curses  of  Lisle  Court — the  other  was  yet  more  galling.  The 
owners  of  Lisle  Court  had  for  several  generations  possessed  the 
dominant  interest  in  the  county  town.  The  Colonel  himself 
meddled  little  in  politics,  and  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  for  the 
drudgery  of  Parliament : — he  had  offered  the  seat  to  Ernest, 
when  the  latter  had  commenced  his  public  career ;  but  the  re- 
sult of  a  communication  proved  that  their  political  views  were 
dissimilar,  and  the  negotiation  dropped  without  ill  feeling  on 
either  side.  Subsequently  a  vacancy  occurred;  and  Lady  Julia's 
brother  (just  made  a  Lord  of  the  Treasury)  wished  to  come  into 
Parliament,  so  the  county  town  was  offered  to  him.  Now,  the 
proud  commoner  had  married  into  the  family  of  a  peer  as  proud 
as  himself,  and  Colonel  Maltravers  was  always  glad  whenever  he 
could  impress  his  consequence  on  his  connections  by  doing 
them  a  favor.  He  wrote  to  his  steward  to  see  that  the  thing  was 
properly  settled,  and  came  down  on  the  nomination-day  "to 
share  the  triumph  and  partake  the  gale."  Guess  his  indig- 
nation, when  he  found  the  nephew  of  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  was 
already  in  the  field !  The  result  of  the  election  was,  that  Mr. 
Augustus  Gubbins  came  in,  and  that  Colonel  Maltravers  was 
pelted  with  cabbage-stalks,  and  accused  of  attempting  to  sell 
the  worthy  and  independent  electors  to  a  government  nominee  ! 
In  shame  and  disgust.  Colonel  Maltravers  broke  up  his  estab- 
lishment at  Lisle  Court,  and  once  more  retired  to  the  continent 

About  a  week  from  the  date  now  touched  upon,  Lady  Julia 


ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  2I7 

and  himself  had  arrived  in  London  from  Vienna ;  and  a  new 
mortification  awaited  the  unfortunate  owner  of  Lisle  Court.  A 
railroad  company  had  been  established,  of  which  Sir  Gregory 
Gubbins  was  a  principal  shareholder;  and  the  speculator,  Mr. 
Augustus  Gubbins,  one  of  the  "most  useful  men  in  the  house," 
had  undertaken  to  carry  the  bill  through  Parliament.  Colonel 
Maltravers  received  a  letter  of  portentous  size,  enclosing  the 
map  of  the  places  which  this  blessed  railway  was  to  bisect ;  and 
lo !  just  at  the  bottom  of  his  park  ran  a  portentous  line,  which 
informed  him  of  the  sacrifice  he  was  expected  to  make  for  the 
public  good — especially  for  the  good  of  that  very  county  town, 
the  inhabitants  of  which  had  pelted  him  with  cabbage-stalks  ! 

Colonel  Maltravers  lost  all  patience.  Unacquainted  with  our 
wise  legislative  proceedings,  he  was  not  aware  that  a  railway 
planned  is  a  very  different  thing  from  a  railway  made  ;  and  that 
parliamentary  committees  are  not  by  any  means  favorable  to 
schemes  for  carrying  the  public  through  a  gentleman's  park. 

"This  country  is  not  to  be  lived  in,"  said  he  to  Lady  Julia  ; 
"  it  gets  worse  and  worse  every  year.  I  am  sure  I  never  had  any 
comfort  in  Lisle  Court.     I've  a  great  mind  to  sell  it." 

"Why,  indeed,  as  we  have  no  sons,  only  daughters,  and 
Ernest  is  so  well  provided  for,"  said  Lady  Julia  ;  "and  the  place 
is  so  far  from  London,  and  the  neighborhood  is  so  disagreeable, 
I  think  that  we  could  do  very  well  without  it." 

Colonel  Maltravers  made  no  answer,  but  he  revolved  the  pros 
and  cons  ;  and  then  he  began  to  think  how  much  it  cost  him  in 
gamekeepers,  and  carpenters,  and  bailiffs,  and  gardeners,  and 
Heaven  knows  whom  besides;  and  then  the  pagoda  flashed 
across  him  ;  and  then  the  cabbage-stalks  :  and  at  last  he  went  to 
his  solicitor. 

"  You  may  sell  Lisle  Court,"  said  he  quietly. 

The  solicitor  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink.  "The  particulars. 
Colonel  ?" 

"  Particulars  of  Lisle  Court !  everybody,  that  is,  every  gentle- 
man, knows  Lisle  Court !  " 

"Price,  sir ! " 

"You  know  the  rents — calculate  accordingly.  It  will  be  too 
large  a  purchase  for  one  individual  ;  sell  the  outlying  woods 
and  farms  separately  from  the  rest." 

"We  must  draw  up  an  advertisement,  Colonel." 

"  Advertise  Lisle  Court ! — out  of  the  question,  sir.  I  can  have 
no  publicity  given  to  my  intention:  mention  it  quietly  to  any 
capitalist ;  but  keep  it  out  of  the  papers  till  it  is  all  settled.  In 
a  week  or  two  you  will  find  a  purchaser — the  sooner  the  better." 


2l8  ALICE  ;    Ok,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Besides  his  horror  of  newspaper  comments  and  newspaper 
puffs,  Colonel  Maltravers  dreaded  that  his  brother — then  in 
Paris — should  learn  his  intention,  and  attempt  to  thwart  it;  and, 
somehow  or  other,  the  colonel  was  a  little  in  awe  of  Ernest,  and 
a  little  ashamed  of  his  resolution.  He  did  not  know  that,  by  a 
singular  coincidence,  Ernest  himself  had  thought  of  selling  Bur- 
leigh, 

The  solicitor  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  this  way  of  set- 
tling the  matter.  However,  he  whispered  it  about  that  Lisle 
Court  was  in  the  market;  and  as  it  really  was  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  places  of  its  kind  in  England,  the  whisper  spread 
among  bankers,  and  brewers,  and  soapboilers,  and  other  rich 
people — the  Medici  of  the  New  Noblesse  rising  up  amongst  us — 
till  at  last  it  reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Douce. 

Lord  Vargrave,  however  bad  a  man  he  might  be,  had  not 
many  of  those  vices  of  character  which  belong  to  what  I  may 
call  i\\e  personal  class  of  vices — that  is,  he  had  no  ill  will  to  indi- 
viduals. He  was  not,  ordinarily,  a  jealous  man,  nor  a  spiteful, 
nor  a  malignant,  nor  a  vindictive  man:  his  vices  arose  from  utter 
indifference  to  all  men,  and  all  things — except  as  conducive  to 
his  own  ends.  He  would  not  have  injured  a  worm  if  it  did  him 
no  good,  but  he  would  have  set  any  house  on  fire,  if  he  had  no 
other  means  of  roasting  his  own  eggs.  Yet  still,  if  any  feeling 
of  personal  rancor  could  harbor  in  his  breast,  it  was  first  towards 
Evelyn  Cameron  ;  and,  secondly,  towards  Ernest  Maltravers. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  did  long  for  revenge — revenge 
against  the  one  for  stealing  his  patrimony,  and  refusing  his 
hand  ;  and  that  revenge  he  hoped  to  gratify.  As  to  the  other, 
it  was  not  so  much  dislike  he  felt,  as  an  uneasy  sentiment  of  in- 
feriority. However  well  he  himself  had  got  on  in  the  world,  he 
yet  grudged  the  reputation  of  a  man  whom  he  had  remembered 
a  wayward,  inexperienced  boy  :  he  did  not  love  to  hear  any  one 
praise  Maltravers.  He  fancied,  too,  that  his  feeling  was  recip- 
rocal, and  that  Maltravers  was  pained  at  hearing  of  any  new 
step  in  his  own  career.  In  fact,  it  was  that  sort  of  jealousy 
which  men  often  feel  for  the  companions  of  their  youth,  whose 
characters  are  higher  than  their  own,  and  whose  talents  are  of 
an  order  they  do  not  quite  comprehend.  Now,  it  certainly  did 
seem,  at  that  moment,  to  Lord  Vargrave,  that  it  would  be  a  most 
splendid  triumph  over  Mr.  Maltravers  of  Burleigh,  to  be  lord 
of  Lisle  Court,  the  hereditary  seat  of  the  elder  branch  of  the 
family;  to  be,  as  it  were,  in  the  very  shoes  of  Mr.  Ernest  Mal- 
travers's  elder  brother.  He  knew,  too,  that  it  was  a  property  of 
great  consequence  :  Lord  Vargrave  of  Lisle  Court  would  hold 


ALICE;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  219 

a  very  different  position  in  the  peerage  from  Lord  Vargrave  of 

,  Fiilham  !     Nobody  would  call  the  owner  of  Lisle  Court 

an  adventurer ;  nobody  would  suspect  such  a  man  of  caring 
three  straws  about  place  and  salary.  And  if  he  married  Eve- 
lyn, and  if  Evelyn  bought  Lisle  Court,  would  not  Lisle  Court 
be  his?  He  vaulted  over  the  ifs,  stiff  monosyllables  though 
they  were,  with  a  single  jump.  Besides,  even  should  the  thing 
come  to  nothing,  there  was  the  very  excuse  he  sought  for  join- 
ing Evelyn  at  Paris,  for  conversing  with  her,  consulting  her.  It 
was  true  that  the  will  of  the  late  lord  left  it  solely  at  the  discre- 
tion of  the  trustees  to  select  such  landed  investment  as  seemed 
best  to  them.  But  still  it  was,  if  not  legally  necessary,  at  least 
but  proper  courtesy,  to  consult  Evelyn.  And  plans,  and  draw- 
ings, and  explanations,  and  rent-rolls,  would  justify  him  in  spend- 
ing morning  after  morning  alone  with  her. 

Thus  cogitating.  Lord  Vargrave  suffered  Mr.  Douce  to  stam- 
mer out  sentence  upon  sentence,  till  at  length,  as  he  rang  for  cof- 
fee, his  lordship  stretched  himself  with  the  air  of  a  man  stretch- 
ing himself  into  self-complacency  or  a  good  thing,  and  said: 

"  Mr.  Douce,  I  will  go  down  to  Lisle  Court  as  soon  as  I  can — 
I  will  see  it — I  will  ascertain  all  about  it — I  will  consider  fav- 
orably of  it — I  agree  with  you,  I  think  it  will  do  famously." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  who  seemed  singularly  anxious  about 
the  matter,  "we  must  make  haste,  my  lord;  for  really — yes,  in- 
deed— if — if — if  Baron  Roths — Rothschild  should — that  is  to 
say — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand — keep  the  thing  close,  my  dear  Douce; 
make  friends  with  the  colonel's  lawyer ;  play  with  him  a  little, 
till  I  can  run  down." 

"Besides,  you  see,  you  are  such  a  good  man  of  business,  my 
lord — that  you  see,  that — yes,  really — there  must  be  time  to 
draw  out  the  purchase-money — sell  out  at  a  prop — prop — " 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure — bless  me,  how  late  it  is  !  I  am  afraid 
my  carrrage  is  ready  ?     I  must  go  to  Madame  de  L 's." 

Mr.  Douce,  who  seemed  to  have  much  more  to  say,  was 
forced  to  keep  it  in  for  another  time,  and  to  take  his  leave. 

Lord  Vargrave  went  to  Madame  de  L 's      His  position  in 

what  is  called  Exclusive  Society  was  rather  peculiar.  By  those 
who  affected  to  be  the  best  judges,  the  frankness  of  his  manner, 
and  the  easy  oddity  of  his  conversation,  were  pronounced  at 
variance  with  the  tranquil  serenity  of  thorough  breeding.  But 
still  he  was  a  great  favorite  both  with  fine  ladies  and  dandies. 
His  handsome,  keen  countenance,  his  talents,  his  politics,  his 
intrigues,  and  an  animated  boldness  in  his  bearing,  compen- 


220  ALICE  ;     UK,  Tilt:    MYSTKRIES. 

sated  for  his  constant  violation  of  all  the  minutiae  of  orthodox  con- 
ventionalism. 

At  this  house  he  met  Colonel  Maltravers,  and  took  an  oppor- 
tunity to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  that  gentleman.  He  then 
referred,  in  a  confidential  whisper,  to  the  communication  he  had 
received  touching  Lisle  Court. 

"Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  suppose  I  must  sell  the  place,  if 
I  can  do  so  quietly.  To  be  sure,  when  I  first  spoke  to  my  law- 
yer it  was  in  a  moment  of  vexation,  on  hearing  that  the rail- 
road was  to  go  through  the  park,  but  I  find  that  I  overrated 
the  danger.  Still,  if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  go  and  look 
over  the  place,  you  will  find  very  good  shooting  ;  and  when  you 
come  back,  you  can  see  if  it  will  suit  you.  Don't  say  anything 
about  it,  when  you  are  there;  it  is  better  not  to  publish  my  in- 
tention all  over  the  county.  I  shall  have  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins 
offering  to  buy  it,  if  you  do  !  " 

"  You  may  depend  on  my  discretion.  Have  you  heard  any- 
thing of  your  brother  lately  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  fancy  he  is  going  to  Switzerland.  He  would  soon 
be  in  England,  if  he  heard  I  was  going  to  part  with  Lisle 
Court !  " 

"  What,  it  would  vex  him  so  ?  " 

"  I  fear  it  would  ;  but  he  has  a  nice  old  place  of  his  own,  not 
half  so  large,  and  therefore  not  half  so  troublesome,  as  Lisle 
Court." 

"Ay  !  and  he  did  talk  of  selling  that  nice  old  place." 

"  Selling  Burleigh  !  you  surprise  me.  But  really  country 
places  in  England  are  a  bore.  I  suppose  he  has  his  Gubbins 
as  well  as  myself !  " 

Here  the  chief  minister  of  the  government  adorned  by  Lord 
Vargrave's  virtues  passed  by,  and  Lumley  turned  to  greet  him. 

The  two  ministers  talked  together  most  affectionately  in  a 
close  whisper, — so  affectionately,  that  one  might  have  seen, 
with  half  an  eye,  that  they  hated  each  other  like  poison  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Inspicere  tanquam  in  speculum,  in  vitas  omnium 
Jubeo."* — Terent. 

Ernest  Maltravers  still  lingered  at  Paris :  he  gave  up  all 
notion  of  proceeding  further.     He  was,  in  fact,  tired  of  travel. 
But  there  was  another  reason  that  chained  him  to  that  "  Navel 
*  I  bid  you  look  into  t}i«  Uv«s  of  ^U  men,  as  \%  were  into  »  mirror. 


ALICE;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  221 

of  the  Earth  " — there  is  not  anywhere  a  better  sounding-board 
to  London  rumors  than  the  English  quarder  between  the 
Boulevard  des  Italiennes  and  the  Tuilerics  ;  here,  at  all  events, 
he  should  soonest  learn  the  worst  :  and  every  day,  as  he  took 
up  the  English  newspapers,  a  sick  feeling  of  apprehension  and 
fear  came  over  him.  No  !  till  the  seal  was  set  upon  the  bond — 
till  the  Rubicon  was  passed — till  Miss  Cameron  was  the  wife  of 
Lord  Vargrave,  he  could  neither  return  to  the  home  that  was 
so  eloquent  with  the  recollections  of  Evelyn,  nor,  by  removing 
further  from  England,  delay  the  receipt  of  an  intelligence  which 
he  vainly  told  himself  he  was  prepared  to  meet. 

He  continued  to  seek  such  distractions  from  thought  as  were 
within  his  reach  ;  and,  as  his  heart  was  too  occupied  for  pleas- 
ures which  had,  indeed,  long  since  palled, — those  distractions 
were  of  the  grave  and  noble  character  which  it  is  a  prerogative 
of  the  intellect  to  afford  to  the  passions. 

De  Montaigne  was  neither  a  Doctrinaire  nor  a  Republican — 
and  yet,  perhaps,  he  was  a  little  of  both.  He  was  one  who 
thought  that  the  tendency  of  all  European  States  is  towards  De- 
mocracy ;  but  he  by  no  means  looked  upon  democracy  as  a  pan- 
acea for  all  legislative  evils.  He  thought  that,  while  a  writer 
should  be  in  advance  of  his  time,  a  statesman  should  content 
himself  with  marching  by  its  side  ;  that  a  nation  could  not  be 
ripened,  like  an  exotic,  by  artificial  means ;  that  it  must  be  de- 
veloped only  by  natural  influences.  He  believed  that  forms  of 
government  are  never  universal  in  their  effects.  Thus,  De  Mon- 
taigne conceived  that  we  were  wrong  in  attaching  more  impor- 
tance to  legislative  than  to  social  reforms.  He  considered,  for 
instance,  that  the  surest  sign  of  our  progressive  civilization  is  in 
our  growing  distaste  to  capital  punishments.  He  believed  not 
in  the  \y\\\vci2X^  perfection  of  mankind,  but  in  their  progressive 
perfectibility.  He  thought  that  improvement  was  indefinite;  but 
he  did  not  place  its  advance  more  under  Republican  than  under 
Monarchical  forms.  "Provided,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "all  our 
checks  to  power  are  of  the  right  kind,  it  matters  little  to  what 
hands  the  power  itself  is  confided." 

".^gina  and  Athens,"  said  he,  "  were  republics — commercial 
and  maritime — placed  under  the  same  sky,  surrounded  by  the 
same  neighbors,  and  rent  by  the  same  struggles  between  oligarchy 
and  democracy.  Yet,  while  one  left  the  world  an  immortal 
heirloom  of  genius — where  are  the  poets,  the  philosophers,  the 
statesmen  of  the  other  ?  Arrian  tells  us  of  republics  in  India — 
still  supposed  to  exist  by  modern  investigators — but  they  are 
not  more  productive  of  liberty  of  thought,  of  ferment  of  intel- 


222  ALICE;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

lect,  than  the  principalities.  In  Italy  there  were  commonwealths 
as  liberal  as  the  republic  of  Florence;  but  they  did  not  produce 
a  Machiavelli  or  a  Dante.  What  daring  thought,  what  gigantic 
speculation,  what  democracy  of  wisdom  and  genius,  have  sprung 
up  amongst  the  despotism  of  Germany  !  You  cannot  educate 
two  individuals  so  as  to  produce  the  same  results  from  both: 
you  cannot,  by  similar  constitutions  (which  are  the  education 
of  nations),  produce  the  same  results  from  different  communities. 
The  proper  object  of  statesmen  should  be,  to  give  every  facility 
to  the  people  to  develop  themselves,  and  every  facility  to  phil- 
osophy to  dispute  and  discuss  as  to  the  ultimate  objects  to  be 
obtained.  But  you  cannot,  as  a  practical  legislator,  place  your 
country  under  a  melon-frame:  it  must  grow  of  its  own  accord." 

I  do  not  say  whether  or  not  De  Montaigne  was  wrong  ;  but 
Maltravers  saw  at  least  that  he  was  faithful  to  his  theories ; 
that  all  his  motives  were  sincere — all  his  practice  pure.  He 
could  not  but  allow,  too,  that,  in  his  occupations  and  labors, 
De  Montaigne  appeared  to  feel  a  sublime  enjoyment, — that,  in 
linking  all  the  powers  of  his  mind  to  active  and  useful  objects, 
De  Montaigne  was  infinitely  happier  that  the  Philosophy  of 
Indifference,  the  scorn  of  ambition,  had  made  Maltravers. 
The  influence  exercised  by  the  large-souled  and  practical 
Frenchman  over  the  fate  and  the  history  of  Maltravers  was 
very  peculiar. 

De  Montaigne  had  not,  apparently  and  directly,  operated 
upon  his  friend's  outward  destinies  ;  but  he  had  done  so  in- 
directly, by  operating  on  his  mind.  Perhaps  it  was  he  who 
had  consolidated  the  first  wavering  and  uncertain  impulses  of 
Maltravers  towards  literary  exertion  ;  it  was  he  who  had  con- 
soled him  for  the  mortifications  at  the  early  part  of  his  career ; 
and  now,  perhaps,  he  might  serve,  in  the  full  vigor  of  his  intel- 
lect, permanently  to  reconcile  the  Englishman  to  the  claims 
of  life. 

There  were,  indeed,  certain  conversations  which  Maltravers 
held  with  De  Montaigne,  the  germ  and  pith  of  which  it  is 
necessary  that  I  should  place  before  the  reader, — for  I  write 
the  inner  as  well  as  the  outer  history  of  a  man  ;  and  the  great 
incidents  of  life  are  not  brought  about  only  by  the  dramatic 
agencies  of  others,  but  also  by  our  own  reasonings  and  habits 
of  thought.  What  I  am  now  about  to  set  down  may  be  weari- 
some, but  it  is  not  episodical ;  and  I  promise  that  it  shall  be 
the  last  didactic  conversation  in  the  work. 

One  day,  Maltravers  was  relating  to  De  Montaigne  all  that 
he  had  been  planning  at  Burleigh  for  the  improvement  of  his 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  22^ 

peasantry,  and  all  his  theories  respecting  Labor-schools  and 
Poor-rates,  when  De  Montaigne  abruptly  turned  round  and 
said  : 

"  You  have,  then,  really  found  that  in  your  own  little  village, 
your  exertions — exertions  not  very  arduous,  not  demanding  a 
tenth  part  of  your  time — have  done  practical  good?" 

"  Certainly  I  think  so,"  replied  Maltravers,  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

"  And  yet  it  was  but  yesterday,  that  you  declared  *  that  all 
the  labors  of  Philosophy  and  Legislation  were  labors  vain  ; 
their  benefits  equivocal  and  uncertain  ;  that  as  the  sea,  where 
it  loses  in  one  place,  gains  in  another,  so  civilization  only 
partially  profits  us,  stealing  away  one  virtue  while  it  yields 
another,  and  leaving  the  large  proportions  of  good  and  evil 
eternally  the  same.'  " 

"True;  but  I  never  said  that  man  might  not  relieve  indi- 
viduals by  individual  exertion  ;  though  he  cannot  by  abstract 
theories — nay,  even  by  practical  action  in  the  wide  circle, — 
benefit  the  mass." 

"  Do  you  not  employ  on  behalf  of  individuals  the  same 
moral  agencies  that  wise  legislation  or  sound  philosophy  would 
adopt  towards  the  multitude  ?  For  example,  you  find  that  the 
children  of  your  village  are  happier,  more  orderly,  more 
obedient,  promise  to  be  wiser  and  better  men  in  their  own 
station  of  life,  from  the  new  and,  I  grant,  excellent,  system  of 
school  discipline  and  teaching  that  you  have  established. 
What  you  have  done  in  one  village,  why  should  not  legislation 
do  throughout  a  kingdom  ?  Again,  you  find  that,  by  simply 
holding  out  hope  and  emulation  to  industry — by  making  stern 
distinctions  between  the  energetic  and  the  idle — the  inde- 
pendent exertion  and  the  pauper-mendicancy — you  have  found 
a  lever  by  which  you  have  literally  moved  and  shifted  the 
ITttle  world  around  you.  But  what  is  the  difference  here  be- 
tween the  rules  of  a  village  lord  and  the  laws  of  a  wise  legisla- 
ture ?  The  moral  feelings  you  have  appealed  to  exist  univer- 
sally— the  moral  remedies  you  have  practised  are  as  open  to 
legislation  as  to  the  individual  proprietor." 

"  Yes  ;  but  when  you  apply  to  a  nation  the  same  principles 
which  regenerate  a  village,  new  counterbalancing  principles 
arise.  If  I  give  education  to  my  peasants,  I  send  them  into 
the  world  with  advantages  superior  to  their  fellows  ;  advantages 
which,  not  being  common  to  their  class,  enable  them  to  outstrip 
their  fellows.  But  if  this  education  were  universal  to  the 
whole  tribe,  no  man  would  have  an  advantage  superior  to  the 


224  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Others ;  tlie  knowledge  they  would  have  acquired  being  shared 
by  all,  would  leave  all  as  they  now  are,  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water :  the  principle  of  individual  hope,  which 
springs  from  knowledge,  would  soon  be  baffled  by  the  vast 
competition  that  universal  knowledge  would  produce.  Tluis 
by  the  universal  improvement  would  be  engendered  an  uni- 
versal discontent. 

"  Take  a  broader  view  of  the  subject.  Advantages  given  to 
the  few  around  me — superior  wages — lighter  toils — a  greater 
sense  of  the  dignity  of  man — are  not  productive  of  any  change 
in  society.  Give  these  advantages  to  the  whole  mass  of  the 
laboring  classes,  and  what  in  the  small  orbit  is  the  desire  of  the 
individual  to  rise,  becomes  in  the  large  circumference  the 
desire  of  the  class  to  rise ;  hence  social  restlessness,  social 
change,  revolution  and  its  hazards.  For  revolutions  are  pro- 
duced but  by  the  aspirations  of  one  order,  and  the  resistance 
of  the  other.  Consequently,  legislative  improvement  differs 
widely  from  individual  amelioration  ;  the  same  principle,  the 
same  agency,  that  purifies  the  small  body,  becomes  destructive 
when  applied  to  the  large  one.  Apply  the  flame  to  the  log  on 
the  hearth,  or  apply  it  to  the  forest,  is  there  no  distinction  in 
the  result  ? — the  breeze  that  freshens  the  fountain  passes  to  the 
ocean,  current  impels  current,  wave  urges  wave,  and  the  breeze 
becomes  the  storm  !  " 

"Were  there  truth  in  this  train  of  argument,"  replied  De 
Montaigne;  "had  we  ever  abstained  from  communicating  to 
the  multitude  the  enjoyments  and  advantages  of  the  Few — 
had  we  shrunk  from  the  good,  because  the  good  is  a  parent  of 
the  change  and  its  partial  ills,  what  now  would  be  society  ?  Is 
there  no  difference  in  collective  happiness  and  virtue  between 
the  painted  Picts  and  the  Druid  worship,  and  the  glorious  har- 
mony, light,  and  order  of  the  great  English  nation  ?" 

**  The  question  is  popular,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a  smile ; 
"and,  were  you  my  opponent  in  an  election,  would  be  cheered 
on  any  hustings  in  the  kingdom.  But  I  have  lived  among 
savage  tribes — savage,  perhaps,  as  the  race  that  resisted  Caesar, 
and  their  happiness  seems  to  me,  not  perhaps  the  same  as  that 
of  the  few  whose  sources  of  enjoyment  are  numerous,  refined, 
and,  save  by  their  own  passions,  unalloyed ;  but  equal  to  that 
of  the  mass  of  men  in  states  the  most  civilized  and  advanced. 
The  artisans,  crowded  together  in  the  fetid  air  of  factories, 
with  physical  ills  gnawing  at  the  core  of  the  constitution,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave ;  drudging  on  from  dawn  to  sunset,  and 
flying  for  recreation  to  the  dread  excitement  of  the  dram-shop, 


AtlCte  ;  OR,  TitE  MYstEkiEl  ii^ 

ftr  the  wild  and  vain  hopes  of  political  fanaticism, — are  not  in 
my  eyes  happier  than  the  wild  Indians  with  hardy  frames,  and 
calm  tempers,  seasoned  to  the  privations  for  which  you  pity 
them,  and  uncursed  with  desires  of  that  better  state  never  to 
be  theirs.  The  Arab  in  his  desert  has  seen  all  the  luxuries  of 
the  pasha  in  his  harem  ;  but  he  envies  them  not.  He  is  con- 
tented with  his  barb,  his  tent,  his  desolate  sands,  and  his  spring 
of  refresliing  water, 

"  Are  we  not  daily  told — do  not  our  priests  preach  it  from 
their  pulpits — that  the  cottage  shelters  happiness  equal  to  that 
within  the  palace  ?  Yet  what  the  distinction  between  the  peas- 
ant and  the  prince,  differing  from  that  between  the  peasant 
and  the  savage?  There  are  more  enjoyments  and  more  priva- 
tions in  the  one  than  in  the  other  ;  but  if,  in  the  latter  case,  the 
enjoyments,  though  fewer,  be  more  keenly  felt, — if  the  priva- 
tions, though  apparently  sharper;  fall  upon  duller  sensibilities 
and  hardier  frames, — your  gauge  of  proportion  loses  all  its 
value.  Nay,  in  civilization  there  is  for  the  multitude  an  evil 
that  exists  not  in  the  savage  state.  The  poor  man  sees  daily 
and  hourly  all  thevast  disparities  produced  by  civilized  society: 
and,  reversing  the  divine  parable,  it  is  Lazarus  from  afar,  and 
from  the  despondent  pit,  looks  upon  Dives  in  the  lap  of  Para- 
dise :  therefore,  his  privations,  his  sufferings,  are  made  more 
keen  by  comparison  with  the  luxuries  of  others.  Not  so  in  the 
desert  and  the  forest.  There,  but  small  distinctions,  and  those 
softened  by  immemorial  and  hereditary  usage — that  has  in  it 
the  sanctity  of  religion — separate  the  savage  from  his  chief  ! 
The  fact  is,  that  in  civilization  we  behold  a  splendid  aggre- 
gate :  literature  and  science,  wealth  and  luxury,  commerce  and 
glory  ;  but  we  see  not  the  million  victims  crushed  beneath  the 
wheels  of  the  machine — the  health  sacrificed — the  board  bread- 
less — the  gaols  filled — the  hospitals  reeking — the  human  life 
poisoned  in  every  spring,  and  poured  forth  like  water  !  Neither 
do  we  remember  all  the  steps,  marked  by  desolation,  crime,  and 
bloodshed,  by  which  this  barren  summit  has  been  reached. 
Take  the  history  of  any  civilized  state — England,  France,  Spain 
— before  she  rotted  back  into  second  childhood — the  Italian 
Republics — the  Greek  Commonwealths — the  Empress  of  the 
Seven  Hills — what  struggles,vvhat  persecutions,  what  crimes,what 
massacres  !  Where,  in  the  page  of  history,  shall  we  look  back 
and  say 'here  improvement  has  diminished  the  sum  of  evil' ? 
Extend,  too,  your  scope  beyond  the  state  itself :  each  state  has 
won  its  acquisitions  by  the  woes  of  others.  Spain  springs 
above  the  Old  World  on  the  blood-stained  ruins  of  the  New  ; 


426  AUC6  ;    OR,  tHE   MYStERies, 

and  the  groans  and  the  gold  of  Mexico  produce  the  splendors 
of  the  Fifth  Charles  ! 

"  Behold  England — the  wise,  the  liberal,  the  free  England — 
through  what  struggles  she  has  passed  ;  and  is  she  yet  con- 
tented? The  sullen  oligarchy  of  the  Normans — our  own  crim- 
inal invasions  of  Scotland  and  France — the  plundered  people — 
the  butchered  kings — the  persecution  of  the  Lollards — the  wars 
of  Lancaster  and  York — the  new  dynasty  of  the  Tudors,  that 
at  once  put  back  Liberty,  and  put  forward  Civilization  ! — the 
Reformation,  cradled  in  the  lap  of  a  hideous  despot,  and  nursed 
by  violence  and  rapine — the  stakes  and  fires  of  Mary  ;  and 
the  craftier  cruelties  of  Elizabeth  ;  England,  strengthened  by 
the  desolation  of  Ireland — the  Civil  Wars — the  reign  of  Hypo- 
crisy, followed  by  the  reign  of  naked  Vice  ;  the  nation  that  be- 
headed the  graceful  Charles  gaping  idly  on  the  scaffold  of  the 
lofty  Sidney;  the  vain  Revolution  of  1688,  which,  if  a  jubilee  in 
England,  was  a  massacre  in  Ireland — the  bootless  glories  of 
Marlborough — the  organized  corruption  of  Walpole — the  frantic 
war  with  our  own  American  sons — the  exhausting  struggles 
with  Napoleon ! 

"  Well,  we  close  the  page — we  say,  Lo !  a  thousand  years 
of  incessant  struggles  and  afflictions ! — millions  have  per- 
ished, but  Art  has  survived ;  our  boors  wear  stockings,  our 
women  drink  tea,  our  poets  read  Shakespeare,  and  our  astrono- 
mers improve  on  Newton  !  Are  we  now  contented  ?  No  ! 
more  restless  than  ever.  New  classes  are  called  into  power  ; 
new  forms  of  government  insisted  on.  Still  the  same  catch- 
words— Liberty  here,  Religion  there — Order  with  one  faction, 
Amelioration  with  the  other.  Where  is  the  goal,  and  what  have 
we  gained?  Books  are  written,  silks  are  woven,  palaces  are 
built — mighty  acquisitions  for  the  few — but  the  peasant  is  a 
peasant  still  !  The  crowd  are  yet  at  the  bottom  of  the  wheel ; 
better  off,  you  say.  No,  for  they  are  not  more  contented  ! 
The  Artisan  is  as  anxious  for  change  as  ever  the  Serf  was  ; 
and  the  steam  engine  has  its  victims  as  well  as  the  sword. 

"Talk  of  legislation  ;  all  isolated  laws  pave  the  way  to  whole- 
sale changes  in  the  form  of  government  !  Emancipate  Catho- 
lics, and  you  open  the  door  to  the  democratic  principle,  that  opin- 
ion should  be  free.  If  free  with  the  sectarian,  it  should  be  free 
with  the  elector.  The  Ballot  is  a  corollary  from  the  Catholic 
Relief-bill.  Grant  the  Ballot,  and  the  new  corollary  of  enlarged 
suffrage.  Suffrage  enlarged  is  divided  but  by  a  yielding  surface 
(a  circle  widening  in  the  waters)  from  universal  suffrage.  Uni- 
versal suffrage  is  Democracy.     Is  democracy  better  than  the 


ALICE  ;    OR,  trtE  MYSTEklES.  5^7 

aristocratic  commonwealth?  Look  at  the  Greeks,  who  knew 
both  forms,  are  they  agreed  which  is  the  best  ?  Plato,  Thucy- 
dides,  Xenophon,  Aristophanes — the  Dreamer,  the  Historian, 
the  Philosophic  Man  of  Action,  the  penetrating  Wit — have  no 
ideals  in  Democracy  !  Algernon  Sidney,  the  martyr  of  liberty, 
allows  no  government  to  the  multitude.  Brutus  died  for  a  re- 
public, but  a  republic  of  Patricians!  What  form  of  govern- 
ment is,  then,  the  best?  All  dispute,  the  wisest  cannot  agree. 
The  many  still  say  '  a  Republic';  yet,  as  you  yourself  will  allow, 
Prussia,  the  Despotism,  does  all  that  Republics  do.  Yes,  but 
a  good  Despot  is  a  lucky  accident  ;  true,  but  a  just  and  benev- 
olent Republic  is  as  yet  a  monster  equally  short-lived.  When 
the  people  have  no  other  tyrant,  their  own  public  opinion  be- 
comes one.  No  secret  espionage  is  more  intolerable  to  a  free 
spirit  than  the  broad  glare  of  the  American  eye. 

"  A  rural  public  is  but  a  patriarchal  tribe — no  emulation,  no 
glory;  peace  and  stagnation.  What  Englishman — what  French- 
man, would  wish  to  be  a  Swiss  ?  A  commercial  republic  is  but 
an  admirable  machine  for  making  money.  Is  Man  created  for 
nothing  nobler  than  freighting  ships,  and  speculating  on  silk 
and  sugar?  In  fact,  there  is  no  certain  goal  in  legislation  ;  we 
go  on  colonizing  Utopia,  and  fighting  phantoms  in  the  clouds. 
Let  us  content  ourselves  with  injuring  no  man,  and  doing  good 
only  in  our  own  little  sphere.  Let  us  leave  states  and  senates 
to  fill  the  sieve  of  the  Danaides,  and  roll  up  the  stone  of 
Sisyphus." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "you  have  certainly 
made  the  most  of  an  argument,  which,  if  granted,  would  con- 
sign government  to  fools  and  knaves,  and  plunge  the  commu- 
nities of  mankind  into  the  Slough  of  Despond.  But  a  very 
commonplace  view  of  the  question  might  suffice  to  shake  your 
system.  Is  life,  mere  animal  life,  on  the  whole,  a  curse  or  a 
blessing?" 

"The  generality  of  men  in  all  countries,"  answered  Maltrav- 
ers,  "enjoy  existence  and  apprehend  death  ;  were  it  otherwise, 
the  world  had  been  made  by  a  Fiend,  and  not  by  a  God  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  observe  how  the  progress  of  society  cheats  the 
grave!  In  great  cities,  where  the  effects  of  civilization  must 
be  the  most  visible,  the  diminution  of  mortality  in  a  correspond- 
ing ratio  with  the  increase  of  civilization  is  most  remarkable. 
In  Berlin,  from  the  year  1747  to  1755,  the  annual  mortality  was 
as  one  to  twenty-eight ;  but  from  1816  to  1822  it  was  as  one  to 
thirty-four  !  You  ask  what  England  has  gained  by  her  pro- 
gress in  the  arts.     I  will  answer  you  by  her  bills  of  mortality. 


2^8  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTEfetES. 

In  Lonclon,  Birmingham,  and  Liverpool  deaths  have  decreased 
in  less  than  a  century  from  one  to  twenty  to  one  to  forty  (pre- 
cisely one-half !).  Again,  whenever  a  community — nay,  a 
single  city,  decreases  in  civilization,  and  in  its  concomitants, 
activity  and  commerce,  its  mortality  instantly  increases.  But 
if  civilization  be  favorable  to  the  prolongation  of  life,  must  it 
not  be  favorable  to  all  tliat  blesses  life — to  bodily  health,  to 
mental  cheerfulness,  to  the  capacities  for  enjoyment  ?  And 
how  much  more  grand,  how  much  more  sublime,  becomes  the 
prospect  of  gain,  if  we  reflect  that,  to  each  life  thus  called 
forth,  there  is  a  soul — a  destiny  beyond  the  grave, — multiplied 
immortalities  !  What  an  apology  for  the  continued  progress 
of  states  !  But  you  say  that,  however  we  advance,  we  continue 
impatient  and  dissatisfied.  Can  you  really  suppose  that,  be- 
cause man  in  every  state,  is  discontented  with  his  lot,  there  is 
no  difference  in  the  degree  and  qualily  of  his  discontent — no 
distinction  between  pining  for  bread  and  longing  for  the  moon  ? 
Desire  is  implanted  within  us,  as  the  very  principle  of  exist- 
ence ;  the  physical  desire  fills  the  world,  and  the  moral  desire 
improves  it ;  where  there  is  desire,  there  must  be  discontent  ; 
if  we  are  satisfied  with  all  things,  desire  is  extinct.  But  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  discontent  is  not  incompatible  with  happiness, 
nay,  it  has  happiness  of  its  own  ;  what  happiness  like  hojie  ? — 
what  is  hope  but  desire  ?  The  European  serf,  whose  seigneur 
could  command  his  life,  or  insist  as  a  right  on  the  chastity  of 
his  daughter,  desires  to  better  his  condition.  God  has  compas- 
sion on  his  state ;  Providence  calls  into  action  the  ambition  of 
leaders,  the  contests  of  faction,  the  movement  of  men's  aims 
and  passions  ;  a  change  passes  through  society  and  legislation, 
and  the  serf  becomes  free!  He  desires  still,  but  what? — no 
longer  personal  security,  no  longer  the  privileges  of  life  and 
health,  but  higher  wages,  greater  comfort,  easier  justice  for  di- 
minished wrongs.  Is  there  no  difference  in  the  quality  of  that 
desire  ?  Was  one  a  greater  torment  than  the  other  is?  Rise 
a  scale  higher  :  A  new  class  is  created — the  Middle  Class — 
the  express  creature  of  Civilization.  Behold  the  burgher  and 
the  citizen,  still  struggling,  still  contending,  still  desiring,  and 
therefore  still  discontented.  But  the  discontent  does  not  prey 
upon  the  springs  of  life ;  it  is  the  discontent  of  hope,  not  de- 
spair; it  calls  forth  faculties,  energies,  and  passions,  in  which 
there  is  more  joy  than  sorrow.  It  is  this  desire  which  makes 
the  citizen  in  private  life  an  anxious  father,  a  careful  master, 
an  active,  and  therefore  not  an  unhappy,  man.  You  allow  that 
individuals  can  effect  individual  good ;  this  very  restlessness^ 


ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  229 

this  very  discontent  with  tl)e  exact  place  that  he  occupies, 
makes  the  citizen  a  benefactor  in  his  narrow  circle.  Com- 
merce, better  than  charity,  feeds  the  hungry  and  clothes  the 
naked.  Ambition,  better  than  brute  affection,  gives  education 
to  our  children,  and  teaches  them  the  love  of  industry,  the 
pride  of  independence,  the  respect  for  others  and  them- 
selves ! " 

**  In  other  words,  a  deference  to  such  qualities  as  can  best 
fit  them  to  get  on  in  the  world,  and  make  the  most  money  !  " 

"  Take  that  view  if  you  will  ;  but  the  wiser,  the  more  civil- 
ized the  state,  the  worse  chances  for  the  rogue  to  get  on  ! — 
there  may  be  some  art,  some  hypocrisy,  some  avarice, — nay, 
some  hardness  of  heart,  in  paternal  example  and  professional 
tuition.  But  what  are  such  sober  infirmities  to  the  vices  that 
arise  from  defiance  and  despair?  Your  savage  has  his  virtues, 
but  they  are  mostly  physical — fortitude,  abstinence,  patience. 
Mental  and  moral  virtues  must  be  numerous  or  few,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  range  of  ideas  and  the  exigencies  of  social  life. 
With  the  savage,  therefore,  they  must  be  fewer  than  with  civil- 
ized men  ;  and  they  are  consequently  limited  to  those  simple 
and  rude  elements  which  the  safety  of  his  state  renders  neces- 
sary to  him.  He  is  usually  hospitable,  sometimes  honest.  But 
vices  are  necessary  to  his  existence,  as  well  as  virtues  ;  he  is  at 
war  with  a  tribe  that  may  destroy  his  own,  and  treachery  with- 
out scruple,  cruelty  without  remorse,  are  essential  to  him  ;  he 
feels  their  necessity,  and  calls  them  virtues!  Even  the  half- 
civilized  man,  the  Arab  whom  you  praise,  imagines  he  has  a 
necessity  for  your  money  ;  and  his  robberies  become  virtues  to 
him.  But  in  civilized  states  vices  are  at  least  not  necessary  to 
the  existence  of  the  majority ;  they  are  not,  therefore,  wor- 
shipped as  virtues.  Society  unites  against  them  ;  treachery, 
robbery,  massacre,  are  not  essential  to  the  strength  or  safety 
of  the  community  ;  they  exist,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  not  cul- 
tivated, but  punished.  The  thief  in  St.  Giles's  has  the  virtues 
of  your  savage  ;  he  is  true  to  his  companions,  he  is  brave  in 
danger,  he  is  patient  in  privation  ;  he  practises  the  virtues  nec- 
essary to  the  bonds  of  his  calling  and  the  tacit  laws  of  his 
vocation.  He  might  have  made  an  admirable  savage  ;  but 
surely  the  mass  of  civilized  men  are  better  than  the  thief  ?  " 

Maltravers  was  struck,  and  paused  a  little  before  he  replied  ; 
and  then  he  shifted  his  ground.  "But  at  least  all  our  laws,  all 
our  efforts,  must  leave  the  multitude  in  every  state  condemned 
to  a  labor  that  deadens  intellect,  and  a  poverty  that  embitters 
life." 


4^6  '   AttCt  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"Supposing  this  were  true,  still  there  are  multitudes  besides 
the  multitude.  In  each  state  Civilization  produces  a  middle 
class,  more  numerous  to-day  than  the  whole  peasantry  of  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Would  Movement  and  Progress  be  with- 
out their  divine  uses,  even  if  they  limited  their  effect  to  the 
production  of  such  a  class?  Look  also  to  the  effect  of  art, 
and  refinement,  and  just  laws,  in  the  wealthier  and  higher 
classes.  See  how  their  very  habits  of  life  tend  to  increase  the 
sum  of  enjoyment — see  the  mighty  activity  that  their  very 
luxury,  the  very  frivolity  of  their  pursuits,  create  !  Without 
an  aristocracy,  would  there  have  been  a  middle  class  ?  without 
a  middle  class,  would  there  ever  have  been  an  interposition 
between  lord  and  slave?  Before  Commerce  produces  a  middle 
class,  Religion  creates  one.  The  Priesthood,  whatever  its 
errors,  was  the  curb  to  Power.  But,  to  return  to  the  multi- 
tude— you  say  that  in  all  times  they  are  left  the  same.  Is  it 
so  ?  1  come  to  statistics  again  :  I  find  that  not  only  civiliza- 
tion, but  liberty,  has  a  prodigious  effect  upon  human  life.  It  is, 
as  it  were,  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  that  liberty  is  so 
passionately  desired  by  the  multitude.  A  negro  slave,  for 
instance,  dies  annually  as  one  to  five  or  six,  but  a  free  African 
in  the  English  service  only  as  one  to  thirty-five  !  Freedom  is 
not,  therefore,  a  mere  abstract  dream — a  beautiful  name — a 
Platonic  aspiration  ;  it  is  interwoven  with  the  most  practical  of 
all  blessings,  life  itself  !  And  can  you  say  fairly  that,  by  laws, 
labor  cannot  be  lightened  and  poverty  diminished  ?  We  have 
granted  already  that,  since  there  are  degrees  in  discontent, 
there  is  a  difference  between  the  peasant  and  the  serf, — how 
know  you  what  the  peasant  a  thousand  years  hence  may  be  ? 
Discontented,  you  will  say — still  discontented.  Yes  ;  but  if  he 
had  not  been  discontented,  he  would  have  been  a  serf  still ! 
Far  from  quelling  this  desire  to  better  himself,  we  ought  to 
hail  it  as  the  source  of  his  perpetual  progress.  That  desire 
to  him  is  often  like  imagination  to  the  poet,  it  transports  him 
into  the  Future — 

'*  Crura  sonant  ferro,  sed  canit  inter  opus" — 

it  is,  indeed,  the  gradual  transformation  from  the  desire  of  De- 
spair to  the  desire  of  Hope,  that  makes  the  difference  between 
man  and  man — between  misery  and  bliss." 

"And  then  comes  the  crisis.  Hope  ripens  into  deeds;  the 
stormy  revolution,  perhaps  the  armed  despotism  ;  the  relapse 
into  the  second  infancy  of  states  !  " 

"  Can  we,  with  new  agencies  at  our  command — new  morality 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  23 1 

—new  wisdom — predicate  of  the  Future  by  the  Past  ?  In  an- 
cient states,  the  mass  were  slaves ;  civilization  and  freedom 
rested  with  oligarchies  ;  in  Athens  20,000  citizens,  400,000 
slaves  !  How  easy  decline,  degeneracy,  overthrow,  in  such 
states — a  handful  of  soldiers  and  philosophers  without  a  Peo- 
ple !  Now  we  have  no  longer  barriers  to  the  circulation  of  the 
blood  of  stales.  The  absence  of  slavery,  the  existence  of  the 
Press  ;  the  healthful  proportions  of  kingdoms,  neither  too  con- 
fined nor  too  vast, — have  created  new  hopes,  which  history 
cannot  destroy.  As  a  proof,  look  to  all  late  revolutions  :  in 
England  the  Civil  Wars,  the  Reformation, — in  France  her  aw- 
ful Saturnalia,  her  military  despotism  !  Has  either  nation  fallen 
back  ?  The  deluge  passes,  and  behold,  the  face  of  things  more 
glorious  than  before  !  Compare  the  French  of  to-day  with  the 
French  of  the  old  regime.  You  are  silent ;  well,  and  if  in  all 
states  there  is  ever  some  danger  of  evil  in  their  activity,  is  that 
a  reason  why  you  are  to  lie  down  inactive? — why  you  are  to  leave 
the  crew  to  battle  for  the  helm  ?  How  much  may  individuals, 
by  the  diffusion  of  their  own  thoughts,  in  letters  or  in  action, 
regulate  the  order  of  vast  events — now  prevent — now  soften — 
now  animate — now  guide  !  And  isa^man,  to  whom  Providence 
and  Fortune  have  imparted  such  prerogatives,  to  stand  aloof, 
because  he  can  neither  foresee  the  Future  nor  create  Perfec- 
tion? And  you  talk  of  no  certain  and  definite  goal!  How 
know  we  that  there  is  a  certain  and  definite  goal,  even  in 
Heaven  ?  how  know  we  that  excellence  may  not  be  illimitable? 
Enough  that  we  improve — that  we  proceed.  Seeing  in  the 
great  design  of  earth  that  benevolence  is  an  attribute  of  the  De- 
signer, let  us  leave  the  rest  to  Posterity  and  to  God." 

"  You  have  disturbed  many  of  my  theories,"  said  Maltravers, 
candidly  ;  "  and  I  will  reflect  on  our  conversation  :  but,  after 
all,  is  every  man  to  aspire  to  influence  others  ?  to  throw  his 
opinions  into  the  great  scales  in  which  human  destinies  are 
weighed  ?  Private  life  is  not  criminal.  It  is  no  virtue  to  write 
a  book,  or  to  make  a  speech.  Perhaps,  I  should  be  as  well  en- 
gaged in  returning  to  my  country  village,  lookingat  my  schools, 
and  wrangling  with  the  parish  overseers — " 

"  Ah,"  interrupted  the  Frenchman,  laughing  ;  "  if  I  have 
driven  you  to  this  point,  I  will  go  no  further.  Every  state  of 
life  has  its  duties  ;  every  man  must  be  himself  the  judge  of 
what  he  is  most  fit  for.  It  is  quite  enough  that  he  desires  to  be 
active,  and  labors  to  be  useful ;  that  he  acknowledges  the  pre- 
cept, '  never  to  be  weary  in  well-doing.'  The  divine  appetite 
once  fostered,  let  it  select  its  own  food-    But  the  roan  who, 


232  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

after  fair  trial  of  his  capacities,  and  with  all  opportunity  for  their 
full  development  before  him,  is  convinced  that  he  has  faculties 
which  private  life  cannot  wholly  absorb  must  not  repine  that 
human  nature  is  not  perfect,  when  he  refuses  even  to  exercise 
the  gifts  he  himself  possesses." 

Now  these  arguments  have  been  very  tedious  ;  in  some  places 
they  have  been  old  and  trite  ;  in  others  they  may  appear  too 
much  to  appertain  to  the  abstract  theory  of  first  principles. 
Yet  from  such  arguments,  pro  and  r^/;,  unless  I  greatly  mistake, 
are  to  be  derived  corollaries  equally  practical  and  sublime  ;  the 
virtue  of  Action — the  obligations  of  Genius — and  the  philoso- 
phy that  teaches  us  to  confide  in  the  destinies,  and  labor  in  the 
service,  of  mankind. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently  her  veiy  picture  : 
Stay — yes,  il  is  so, — Lelia." 

The  Captain,  Act  v.  Scene  i. 

Maltravers  had  not  shrunk  into  a  system  of  false  phil- 
osophy from  wayward  and  sickly  dreams,  from  resolute  self- 
delusion  ;  on  the  contrary,  his  errors  rested  on  his  convictions — 
the  convictions  disturbed,  the  errors  were  rudely  shaken. 

But  when  his  mind  began  restlessly  to  turn  once  more  towards 
the  duties  of  active  life ;  when  he  recalled  all  the  former 
drudgeries  and  toils  of  political  conflict,  or  the  wearing  fatigues 
of  literature,  with  its  small  enmities,  its  false  friendships,  and 
its  meagre  and  capricious  rewards, — ah  !  then,  indeed,  he 
shrunk  in  dismay  from  the  thoughts  of  the  solitude  at  home ! 
No  lips  to  console  in  dejection,  no  heart  to  sympathize  in 
triumph,  no  love  within  to  counterbalance  the  hate  without — 
and  the  best  of  man,  his  household  affections,  left  to  wither 
away,  or  to  waste  themselves  on  ideal  images,  or  melancholy 
remembrance. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  generally  remarked  (contrary  to  a  common 
notion),  that  the  men  who  are  most  "happy  at  home  are  the 
most  active  abroad.  The  animal  spirits  are  necessary  to 
healthful  action  ;  and  dejection  and  the  sense  of  solitude  will 
turn  the  stoutest  into  dreamers.  The  hermit  is  the  antipodes 
of  the  citizen ;  and  no  gods  animate  and  inspire  us  like  the 
Lares. 

One  evening,  after  an  absence  from  Paris  of  nearly  a  fort- 
night, at  De  Montaigne's  villa,  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Cloud, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  233 

Maltravers,  who,  though  he  no  longer  practised  the  art,  was  not 
less  fond  than  heretofore  of  music,  was  seated  in  Madame  de 
Ventadour's  box  at  the  ItaHan  Opera  ;  and  Valerie,  who  was 
above  all  the  woman's  jealousy  of  beauty,  was  expatiating  with 
great  warmth  of  eulogium  upon  the  charms  of  a  young  English 
lady  whom  she  had  met  at  Lady  G 's  the  preceding  eve- 
ning— 

"  She  is  just  my  beau  (dial  of  the  true  English  beauty,"  said 
Valerie  :  "  it  is  not  only  the  exquisite  fairness  of  the  com- 
plexion, nor  the  eyes  so  purely  blue,  which  the  dark  lashes 
relieve  from  the  coldness  common  to  the  light  eyes  of  the 
Scotch  and  Germans, — that  are  so  beautifully  national,  but  the 
simplicity  of  manner,  the  unconsciousness  of  admiration,  the 
mingled  modesty  and  sense  of  the  expression.  No,  I  have 
seen  women  more  beautiful,  but  I  never  saw  one  more  lovely  ; 
you  are  silent — I  expected  some  burst  of  patriotism  in  return 
for  my  compliment  to  your  countrywoman  !  " 

"  But  1  am  so  absorbed  in  that  wonderful  Pasta —  " 

*'  You  are  no  such  thing  ;  your  thoughts  are  f-^r  away.  But 
can  you  tell  me  anything  about  my  fair  stranger  and  her 
friends?  In  the  first  place,  there  is  a  Lord  Doltimore,  whom  \ 
knew  before — you  need  say  nothing  about  him  ;  in  the  next, 
there  is  his  new-married  bride,  handsome,  dark — but  you  are 
not  well ! " 

"  It  was  the  draught  from  the  door — go  on,  I  beseech  you — 
the  young  lady — the  friend,  her  name  ?  " 

"  Her  name  I  do  not  remember ;  but  she  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  one  of  your  statesmen.  Lord  Vargrave — the  marriage 
is  broken  off — I  know  not  if  that  be  the  cause  of  a  certain 
melancholy  in  her  countenance — a  melancholy  I  am  sure  not 
natural  to  its  Hebe-like  expression. — But  who  have  just  entered 
the  opposite  box  ?  Ah,  Mr.  Maltravers,  do  look,  there  is  the 
beautiful  English  girl !  " 

And  Maltravers  raised  his  eyes,  and  once  more  beheld  the 
countenance  of  Evelyn  Cameron  ! 


834  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


BOOK    VII. 

AiiKt/aig  ay  vug  Myuv 

^A0£,— Soph.  (EdtJ>.  Tyran.  68 1. 

"  Words  of  dark  import  gave  suspicion  birth." — Potter. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Luce.  Is  the  wind  there  ? 
That  makes  for  me. 
Isab.  Come — I  forget  a  business." 

Wit  without  Money. 

Lord  Vargrave's  travelling  carriage  was  at  his  door,  and 
he  himself  was  putting  on  his  great-coat  in  his  library,  when 
Lord  Saxingham  entered. 

"  What  !  you  are  going  into  the  country  ?  '* 

"Yes — I  wrote  you  word — to  see  Lisle  Court." 

"  Ay,  true  ;  I  had  forgot.  Somehow  or  other  my  memory  is 
not  so  good  as  it  was." 

**  But,  let  me  see,  Lisle  Court  is  in shire.     Why,  you  will 

pass  within  ten  miles  of  C ." 

"  C !  shall  I  ?     I  am  not  much  versed  in  the  geography 

of  England — never  learned  it  at  school.  As  for  Poland,  Kam- 
schatka,  Mexico,  Madagascar,  or  any  other  place  as  to  which 
knowledge  would  be  useful,  I  have  every  inch  of  the  way  at 

my  fingers'  end.     But  hpropos  of  C ,  it  is  the  town  in  which 

my  late  uncle  made  his  fortune." 

"  Ah,  so  it  is.     I  recollect  yoM  were  to  have  stood  for  C , 

but  gave  it  up  to  Staunch  ;  very  handsome  in  you.  Have  you 
any  interest  there  still  ?" 

"  I  think  my  ward  has  some  tenants, — a  'street  or  two, — one 
called  Richard  Street,  and  the  other  Templeton  Place.  I  had 
intended  some  weeks  ago  to  have  gone  down  there,  and  seen 
what  interest  was  still  left  to  our  family  ;  but  Staunch  himself 
told  me  that  C was  a  sure  card." 

"  So  he  thought  ;  but  he  has  been  with  me  this  morning  in 
great  alarm  :  he  now  thinks  he  shall  be  thrown  out.  A  Mr. 
Winsley,  who  has  a  great  deal  of  interest  there,  and  was  a  sup- 
porter of  his,  hangs  back  on   account  of    the question. 

This  is  unlucky,  as  Staunch  is  quite  with  us ;  and  if  h?  w^r^ 
to  yat  npw  \\  woyl4  be  most  unfprtunat?," 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  2^5 

"  Winsley  !  Winsley  ! — my  poor  uncle's  right-hand  man. 
A  great  brewer — always  chairman  of  the  Templeton  Commit- 
tee.    I  know  the  name,  though  I  never  saw  the  man." 

"  If  you  could  take  C in  your  way  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure.  Staunch  must  not  be  lost.  We  cannot  throw 
away  a  single  vote,  much  more  one  of  such  weight, — eighteen 

stone  at  the  least !     I'll  stop  at  C on   pretence  of  seeing 

after  my  ward's  houses,  and  have  a  quiet  conference  with  Mr. 
Winsley.  Hem  !  Peers  must  not  interfere  in  elections — eh  ? 
Well,  good-bye  ;  take  care  of  yourself.  I  shall  be  back  in  a 
week,  I  hope, — perhaps  less." 

In  a  minute  more,  Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr.  George  Frederick 
Augustus  Howard,  a  slim  young  gentleman  of  high  birth  and 
connections,  but  who,  having,  as  a  portionless  cadet,  his  own 
way  to  make  in  the  world,  condescended  to  be  his  lordship's 
private  secretary,  were  rattling  over  the  streets  the  first  stage 
toC . 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Lord  Vargrave  arrived  at  the  head 
inn  of  that  grave  and  respectable  cathedral  city,  in  which  once 
Richard  Templeton,  Esq., — saint,  banker,  and  politician, — had 
exercised  his  dictatorial  sway.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi!  As 
he  warmed  his  hands  by  the  fire  in  the  large  wainscoted  apart- 
ment into  which  he  was  shown,  his  eye  met  a  full-length  en- 
graving of  his  uncle,  with  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hands, — meant 
for  a  parliamentary  bill  for  the  turnpike  trusts  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  C .     "The  sight  brought  back  his  recollections  of 

that  pious  and  saturnine  relation,  and  insensibly  the  minister's 
thoughts  flew  to  his  death-bed,  and  to  the  strange  secret  which 
in  that  last  hour  he  had  revealed  to  Lumley, — a  secret  which 
had  done  much  in  deepening  Lord  Vargrave's  contempt  for 
the  forms  and  conventionalities  of  decorous  life.  And  here  it 
may  be  mentioned — though  in  the  course  of  this  volume  a  pen- 
etrating reader  may  have  guessed  as  much — that,  whatever 
that  secret,  it  did  not  refer  expressly  or  exclusively  to  the  late 
lord's  singular  and  ill-assorted  marriage.  Upon  that  point 
much  was  still  left  obscure  to  arouse  Lumley's  curiosity,  had 
he  been  a  man  whose  curiosity  was  very  vivacious.  But  on 
this  he  felt  but  little  interest.  He  knew  enough  to  believe  that 
no  further  information  could  benefit  himself  personally :  why 
should  he  trouble  his  head  with  what  never  would  fill  his  pockets  ? 

An  audible  yawn  from  the  slim  secretary  roused  Lord  Var- 
grave from  his  revery. 

"  I  envy  you,  my  young  friend,"  said  he,  good-humoredly 
"  It  is  a  pleasure  we  lose  as  we  grow  older — that  of  being  sleepy. 


a^G  ALICE  ;    OR,  THfi  MYSTERIES. 

However,  *  to  bed,'  as  Lady  Macbeth  says.  Faith,  I  don't  won- 
der the  poor  devil  of  a  thane  was  slow  in  going  to  bed  with  such 
a  tigress.     Good-night  to  you." 


CHAPTER  IT. 

"  Ma  fortune  va  prendre  une  face  nouvelle."  ♦ 

Racine  :  Androm.  Act  i.  Scene  i. 

The  next  morning  Vargrave  inquired  the  way  to  Mr.  Wins- 
ley's,  and  walked  alone  to  the  house  of  the  brewer.  The  slim 
secretary  went  to  inspect  the  cathedral. 

Mr.  Winsley  was  a  little,  thickset  man,  with  a  civil  but  blunt 
electioneering  manner.  He  started  when  he  heard  Lord  Var- 
grave's  name,  and  bowed  with  great  stiffness,  Vargrave  saw 
at  a  glance  that  there  was  some  cause  of  grudge  in  the  mind  of 
the  worthy  man  ;  nor  did  Mr.  Winsley  long  hesitate  before  he 
cleansed  his  bosom  of  its  perilous  stuff. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  honor,  my  lord  :  I  don't  know  how 
to  account  for  it." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Winsley,  your  friendship  with  my  late  uncle  can, 
perhaps,  sufficiently  explain  and  apologize  for  a  visit  from  a 
nephew  sincerely  attached  to  his  memory." 

"  Humph  !  I  certainly  did  all  in  my  power  to  promote  Mr. 
Templeton's  interests.  No  man,  I  may  say,  did  more  ;  and 
yet  I  don't  think  it  was  much  thought  of  the  moment  he  turned 

his  back  upon   the  electors  of  C .     Not  that  I  bear  any 

malice ;  I  am  well-to-do,  and  value  no  man's  favor — no  man's, 
my  lord  !  " 

"  You  amaze  me  !  I  always  heard  my  poor  uncle  speak  of 
you  in  the  highest  terms." 

"  Oh  ! — well,  it  don't  signify — pray  say  no  more  of  it.  Can 
I  offer  your  lordship  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  ;  but  we  really  must  set  this 
little  matter  right.     You  know  that  after  his  marriage  my  uncle 

never  revisited  C ;    and  that  shortly  before  his  death  he 

sold  the  greater  part  of  his  interest  in  this  city.  His  young 
wife,  I  suppose,  liked  the  neighborhood  of  London  ;  and  when 
elderly  gentlemen  do  marry,  you  know,  they  are  no  longer  their 
own  masters  ;  but  if  you  had  ever  come  to  Fulham — ah  !  then, 
indeed,  my  uncle  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  his  old  friend," 

"  Your  lordship  thinks  so,"  said  Mr.  Winsley,  with  a  sardonic 
smile.     "You  are  mistaken  ;  I  did  call  at  Fulham  ;  and  though 

*  My  fortune  is  about  to  take  a  turn. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  237 

I  sent  in  ray  card,  Lord  Vargrave's  servant  (he  was  then  My 
Lord)  brought  back  word  that  his  lordship  was  not  at  home." 

"  But  that  must  have  been  true  ;  he  was  out,  you  may 
depend  on  it." 

"  I  saw  him  at  the  window,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Winsley  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff. 

(Oh,  the  deuce  !  I'm  in  for  it,  thought  Lumley.)  "  Very 
strange,  indeed  !  but  how  can  you  account  for  it  ?  Ah  !  per- 
haps the  health  of  Lady  Vargrave — she  was  so  very  delicate 
tlien,  and  my  poor  uncle  lived  for  her — you  know  that  he  left 
all  his  fortune  to  Miss  Cameron?" 

"  Miss  Cameron  ! — Who  is  she,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Why,  his  daughter-in-law  ;  Lady  Vargrave  was  a  widow — a 
Mrs.  Cameron." 

"Mrs.  Cam — I  remember  now — they  put  Cameron  in 
the  newspapers  ;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  mistake.  But,  per- 
haps "  (added  Winsley,  with  a  sneer  of  peculiar  malignity), — 
"  perhaps,  when  your  worthy  uncle  thought  of  being  a  peer,  he 
did  not  like  to  have  it  known  that  he  married  so  much  beneath 
him." 

"You  quite  mistake,  my  dear  sir  ;  my  uncle  never  denied 
that  Mrs.  Cameron  was  a  lady  of  no  fortune  or  connections — 
widow  to  some  poor  Scotch  gentleman,  who  died,  1  think,  in 
India." 

"  He  left  her  very  ill  off,  poor  thing,  but  she  had  a  great 
deal  of  merit,  and  worked  hard — she  taught  my  girls  to  play — " 

"  Your  girls  ! — did  Mrs.  Cameron  ever  reside  in  C ? " 

"  To  be  sure  ;  but  she  was  then  called  Mrs.  Butler — just  as 
pretty  a  name,  to  my  fancy." 

"  You  must  make  a  mistake  ;  my  uncle  married  this  lady  in 
Devonshire." 

"  Very  possibly,"  quoth  the  brewer  doggedly.  "  Mrs.  But- 
ler left  the  town  with  her  little  girl,  some  time  before  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton  married." 

"Well,  you  are  wiser  than  I  am,"  said  Lumley,  forcing  a 
smile.  "  But  how  can  you  be  sure  that  Mrs.  Butler  and  Mrs. 
Cameron  are  one  and  the  same  person  ?  You  did  not  go  into 
the  house — you  could  not  have  seen  Lady  Vargrave  "  (and 
here  Lumley  shrewdly  guessed — if  the  tale  were  true — at  the 
cause  of  his  uncle's  exclusion  of  his  old  acquaintance). 

"  No  ;  but  I  saw  her  ladyship  on  the  lawn,"  said  Mr.  Wins- 
ley, with  another  sardonic  smile  ;  "and  I  asked  the  porter  at 
the  lodge,  as  I  went  out,  if  that  was  Lady  Vargrave,  and  he 
said  *yes.'     However,  my  lord,  bygones  are   bygones — I  bear 


538  ALICE  ;    ok,  THE  MYSTERIES. 

no  malice ;  your  uncle  was  a  good  man  ;  and  if  he  had  but 
said  to  me,  '  Winsley,  don't  say  a  word  about  Mrs.  Butler,'  he 
miglit  have  reckoned  on  me  just  as  much  as  when  in  his  elec- 
tions he  used  to  put  five  thousand  pounds  in  my  hand  and  say, 
'Winsley,  no  bribery — it  is  wicked  ;  let  this  be  given  in  charity.' 
Did  any  one  ever  know  how  that  money  went  ?  Was  your 
uncle  ever  accused  of  corruption  ? — But,  my  dear  lord,  surely 
you  will  take  some  refreshment  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  ;  but  if  you  will  let  me  dine  with  you  to-mor- 
row, you'll  oblige  me  much, — and,  whatever  my  uncle's  faults 
(and  latterly,  poor  man,  he  was  hardly  in  his  senses, — what  a 
will  he  made  !)  let  not  the  nephew  suffer  for  them.  Come,  Mr. 
Winsley,"  and  Lumley  held  out  his  hand  with  enchanting 
frankness,  "you  know  my  motives  are  disinterested — I  have  no 
parliamentary  interest  to  serve — we  have  no  constituents  for 
our  Hospital  of  Incurables, — and — oh  !  that's  right — we're 
friends,  I  see  !  Now,  I  must  go  and  look  after  iny  ward's 
houses.     Let  me  see,  the  agent's  name  is — is — " 

"  Perkins,  I  think,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Winsley,  thoroughly 
softened  by  the  charm  of  Vargrave's  words  and  manner.  "  Let 
me  put  on  my  hat,  and  show  you  his  house." 

"Will  you? — that's  very  kind  ;  givemeallthe  election  news 
by  the  way — you  know  I  was  once  within  an  ace  of  being  your 
member." 

Vargrave  learned  from  his  new  friend  some  further  particu- 
lars relative  to  Mrs.  Butler's  humble  habits  and  homely  mode 

of  life  at  C ,  which  served  completely  to  explain  to  him  why 

his  proud  and  worldly  uncle  had  so  carefully  abstained  from 
all  intercourse  with  that  cit)',  and  had  prevented  the  nephew 
from  standing  for  its  vacant  representation.  It  seemed,  liow- 
ever,  that  Winsley — whose  resentment  was  not  of  a  very  active 
or  violent  kind — had  not  communicated  the  discovery  he  had 
made  to  his  fellow-townspeople ;  but  had  contented  himself 
with  hints  and  aphorisms,  whenever  he  had  heard  the  subject 
of  Mr.  Templeton's  marriage  discussed,  which  had  led  the 
gossips  of  the  place  to  imagine  that  he  had  made  a  worse 
selection  than  he  really  had.  As  to  the  accuracy  of  Winsley's 
assertion,  Vargrave,  though  surprised  at  first,  had  but  little 
doubt  on  consideration,  especially  when  he  heard  that  Mrs. 
Butler's  principal  patroness  had  been  the  Mrs.  Leslie  now  the 
intimate  friend  of  Lady  Vargrave.  But  what  had  been  the 
career — what  the  earlier  condition  and  struggles  of  this  simple 
and  interesting  creature? — with  her  appearance  at  C , com- 
menced all  that  surmise  could  invent.     Not  greater  was  the 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  239 

mystery  that  wrapped  tlie  apparition  of  Manco  Capac  by  tlie 
lake  Titiaca,  than  that  which  shrouded  the  places  and  the 
trials  whence  the  lowly  teacher  of  music  had  emerged  amidst 
the  streets  of  C . 

Weary,  and  somewhat  careless,  of  conjecture.  Lord  Var- 
grave,  in  dining  with  Mr.  Winsley,  turned  the  conversation 
upon  the  business  on  which  he  had  principally  undertaken  liis 
journey — viz.  the  meditated  purchase  of  Lisle  Court. 

"  I  mycelf  am  not  a  very  good  judge  of  landed  property," 
said  Vargrave  ;  "  I  wish  I  Jcnew  of  an  experienced  surveyor  to 
look  over  the  farms  and  timber  :  can  you  help  me  to  such  a 
one  ? " 

Mr.  Winsley  smiled,  and  glanced  at  a  rosy-cheeked  young 
lady,  who  simpered  and  turned  away.  "  I  think  my  daughter 
could  recommend  one  to  your  lordship,  if  she  dared." 

"Oh,  pa!" 

"  I  see.  Well,  Miss  Winsley,  I  will  take  no  recommendation 
but  yours." 

Miss  Winsley  made  an  effort. 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  have  always  heard  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs 
considered  very  clever  in  his  profession." 

"  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs  is  my  man  !  His  good  health — and  a 
fair  wife  to  him." 

Miss  Winsley  glanced  at  mamma,  and  then  at  a  younger 
sister,  and  then  there  was  a  titter — and  then  a  fluttering — and 
then  a  rising — and  Mr.  Winsley,  Lord  Vargrave,  and  the  slim 
secretary,  were  left  alone. 

"  Really,  my  lord,"  said  the  host,  resettling  himself,  and 
pushing  the  wine — "  though  you  have  guessed  our  little  family 
arrangement,  and  I  have  some  interest  in  the  recommendation, 
— since  Margaret  will  be  Mrs.  Robert  Hobbs  in  a  few  weeks — 
yet  I  do  not  know  a  more  acute,  intelligent  young  man  any- 
where. Highly  respectable,  with  an  independent  fortune  ;  his 
father  is  lately  dead,  and  made  at  least  thirty  thousand  pounds 
in  trade.  His  brother  Edward  is  also  dead  ;  so  he  has  the  bulk 
of  the  property,  and  he  follows  his  profession  merely  for  amuse- 
ment.    He  would  consider  it  a  great  honor." 

"And  where  does  he  live?" 

"Oh,  not  in   this  county — a  long  way   off;  close   to ; 

but  it  is  all  in  your  lordship's  road.  A  very  nice  house  he  has 
too.  I  have  known  his  family  since  I  was  a  boy  ;  it  is  astonish- 
ing how  his  father  improved  the  place, — it  was  a  poor  little 
lath-and-plaster  cottage  when  the  late  Mr.  Hobbs  bought  it, 
and  it  is  now  a  very  excellent  family  house." 


240  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"Well,  you  shall  give  me  the  address  and  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, and  so  much  for  that  matter.  But  to  return  to  politics  ;" 
and  here  Lord  Vargrave  ran  eloquently  on,  till  Mr.  Winsley 
thought  him  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  could  save  the 
country  from  that  utter  annihilation — the  possibility  of  which 
he  had  never  even  suspected  before. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  add,  that,  on  wishing  Lord  Vargrave 
good-night,  Mr.  Winsley  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Your  lordship's 
friend.  Lord  Staunch,  need  be  under  no  apprehension — we  are 
all  right  ! " 


CHAPTER  IIL 

* '  This  is  the  house,  sir. — Love's  Pilgrimage,  Act  iv.  Sc.  2. 
"  Redeunt  Saturnia  regna."  * — Virgil. 

The  next  morning,  Lumley  and  his  slender  companion  were 
rolling  rapidly  over  the  same  road  on  which,  sixteen  years  ago, 
way-worn  and  weary,  Alice  Darvil  had  first  met  with  Mrs. 
Leslie ;  they  were  talking  about  a  new  opera-dancer  as  they 
whirled  by  the  very  spot. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  next  day,  when 
the  carriage  stopped  at  a  cast-iron  gate,  on  which  was  inscribed 
the  epigraph, — "  Hobbs'  Lodge — Ring  the  Bell." 

"A  snug  place  enough,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  as  they  were 
waiting  the  arrival  of  the  footman  to  unbar  the  gate. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Howard.  "If  a  retired  Cit  could  be  trans- 
formed into  a  house,  such  is  the  house  he  would  be." 

Poor  Dale  Cottage  !  the  home  of  Poetry  and  Passion  !  But 
change  visits  the  Commonplace  as  well  as  the  Romantic. 
Since  Alice  had  pressed  to  that  cold  grating  her  wistful  eyes, 
time  had  wrought  its  allotted  revolutions — the  old  had  died — ■ 
the  young  grown  up.  Of  the  children  playing  on  the  lawn, 
death  had  claimed  some,  and  marriage  others, — and  the  holy- 
day  of  youth  was  gone  for  all. 

The  servant  opened  the  gate.  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs  was  at 
home  ; — he  had  friends  with  him — he  was  engaged.  Lord  Var- 
grave sent  in  his  card,  and  the  introductory  letter  from  Mr. 
Winsley.  In  two  seconds,  these  missives  brought  to  the  gate 
Mr.  Robert  Hobbs  himself ;  a  smart  young  man,  with  a  black 
stock,  red  whiskers,  and  an  eye-glass  pendant  to  a  hair-chain 
which  was  possibly  a  gage  d'amour  from  Miss  Margaret 
Winsley. 

*  A  former  state  of  things  return*^ 


Alice  ;   or,  the  mysteries.  241 

A  profusion  of  bows,  comi)Iiments,  apologies,  etc.,  the 
carriage  drove  up  the  sweep,  and  Lord  Vargrave  descended, 
and  was  immediately  ushered  into  Mr.  Hobbs's  private  room. 
The  slim  secretary  followed,  and  sat  silent,  melancholy,  and 
upright,  while  the  peer  affably  explained  his  wants  and  wishes  to 
the  surveyor. 

Mr,  Hobbs  was  well  acquainted  with  the  locality  of  Lisle 
Court,  which  was  little  more  than  thirty  miles  distant  ;  he 
should  be  proud  to  accompany  Lord  Vargrave  thither  the  next 
morning.      But,  might  he   venture — might  he  dare — might  he 

presume — a  gentleman  who  lived  at  the  town  of  was  to 

dine  with  him  that  day  ;  a  gentleman  of  the  most  profound 
knowledge  of  agricultural  affairs  ;  agentleman  who  knew  every 
farm,  almost  every  acre,  belonging  to  Colonel  Maltravers — if 
his  lordship  could  be  induced  to  wave  ceremony,  and  dine  with 
Mr.  Hobbs,  it  might  be  really  useful  to  meet  this  gentleman. 
The  slim  secretary,  who  was  very  hungry,  and  who  thought  he 
sniffed  an  uncommonly  savory  smell,  looked  up  from  his 
boots, — Lord  Vargrave  smiled. 

"My  young  friend  here  is  too  great  an  admirer  of  Mrs. 
Hobbs, — who  is  to  be, — not  to  feel  anxious  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  any  members  of  the  family  she  is  to  enter." 

Mr.  George  Frederick  Augustus  Howard  blushed  indignant 
refutation  of  the  calumnious  charge. — Vargrave  continued  : 

"  As  for  me,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  any  friends  of  yours, 
and  am  greatly  obliged  for  your  consideration.  We  may  dis- 
miss the  postboys,  Howard, — and  what  time  shall  we  summon 
them  ? — ten  o'clock  ?  " 

"If  your  lordship  would  condescend  to  accept  a  bed,  we  can 
accommodate  your  lordship  and  this  gentleman,  and  start  at 
any  hour  in  the  morning  that — " 

"So  be  it,"  interrupted  Vargrave.  "You  speak  like  a  man 
of  business.  Howard,  be  so  kind  as  to  order  the  horses  for  six 
o'clock  to-morrow.     We'll  breakfast  at  Lisle  Court." 

This  matter  settled,  Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr.  Howard  were 
shown  into  their  respective  apartments.  Travelling  dresses  were 
changed — the  dinner  put  back — and  the  fish  overboiled  ; — but 
what  mattered  common  fish,  when  Mr.  Hobbs  had  just  caught 
such  a  big  one  ?  Of  what  consequence  he  should  be  henceforth 
and  ever  !  A  peer — a  minister — a  stranger  to  the  county, — to 
come  all  this  way  to  consult//////.'' — to  be  /its  guest  ! — to  be 
shown  off,  and  patted,  and  trotted  out  before  all  the  rest  of  the 
company  !  Mr.  Hobbs  was  a  made  man  !  Careless  of  all  this, 
—ever  at  home  with  any  one, — and  delighted,  perhaps,  to  es- 


243  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

cape  a  tcte-a-iete  with  Mr.  Howard  in  a  strange  inn, — Vargrave 
lounged  into  the  drawing-room,  and  was  formally  presented  to 
the  expectant  family  and  the  famishing  guests. 

During  the  expiring  bachelorship  of  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs,  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Tiddy  (to  whom  the  reader  was  first  introduced  as 
a  bride — gathering  the  wisdom  of  economy  and  large  joints  from 
the  frugal  lips  of  her  mamma),  officiated  as  lady  of  the  house, — 
a  comely  matron,  and  well-preserved, — except  that  she  had  lost 
a  front  tooth, — in  a  jaundiced  satinet  gown, — with  a  fall  of 
British  blonde,  and  a  tucker  of  the  same :  Mr.  Tiddy  being  a 
starch  man,  and  not  willing  that  the  luxuriant  charms  of  Mrs. 
T.  should  be  too  temptingly  exposed  !  There  was  also  Mr, 
Tiddy,  whom  his  wife  had  married  for  love,  and  who  was  now 
well-to-do  ;  a  fine-looking  man,  with  large  whiskers,  and  a  Ro- 
man nose,  a  little  awry.  Moreover,  there  was  a  Miss  Biddy  or 
Bridget  Hobbs,  a  young  lady  of  four  or  five-and-twenty,  who 
was  considering  whether  she  might  ask  Lord  Vargrave  to  write 
something  in  her  album,  and  who  cast  a  bashful  look  of  admi- 
ration at  the  slim  secretary,  as  he  now  sauntered  into  the  room, 
in  a  black  coat,  black  waistcoat,  black  trousers,  and  black  neck- 
cloth, with  a  black  pin, — looking  much  like  an  ebony  cane  split 
half-way  up.  Miss  Biddy  was  a  fair  young  lady,  a  lee/le  faded, 
with  uncommonly  thin  arms  and  while  satin  shoes,  on  which  the 
slim  secretary  cast  his  eyes  and — shuddered  ! 

In  addition  to  the  family  group  were  the  Rector  of ,  an 

agreeable  man,  who  published  sermons  and  poetry  ;  also  Sir 
William  Jekyll,  who  was  employing  Mr.  Hobbs  to  make  a  map 
of  an  estate  he  had  just  purchased  ;"also  two  country  squires 
and  their  two  wives  ;  moreover,  the  physician  of  the  neighbor- 
ing town, — a  remarkably  tall  man,  who  wore  spectacles  and  told 
anecdotes  ;  and,  lastly,  Mr.  Onslow,  the  gentleman  to  whom 
Mr.  Hobbs  had  referred, — an  elderly  man  of  prepossessing  ex- 
terior, of  high  repute  as  the  most  efficient  magistrate,  the  best 
farmer,  and  the  most  sensible  person  in  the  neighborhood.  This 
made  the  party,  to  each  individual  of  which  the  great  man 
bowed  and  smiled  ;  and  the  great  man's  secretary  bent,  conde- 
scendingly, three  joints  of  his  backbone. 

The  bell  was  now  rung — dinner  announced.  Sir  William 
Jekyll  led  the  way  with  one  of  the  she-squires,  and  Lord  Var- 
grave offered  his  arm  to  the  portly  Mrs.  Tiddy. 

Vargrave,  as  usual,  was  the  life  of  the  feast.  Mr.  Howard, 
who  sat  next  to  Miss  Bridget,  conversed  with  her  between  the 
courses,  "  in  dumb  show."  Mr.  Onslow  and  the  physician 
played  second  and  third  to  Lord  Vargrave.     When  the  dinner 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  243 

was  over,  and  the  ladies  had  retired,  Vargrave  found  himself 
seated  next  to  Mr.  Onslow,  and  discovered  in  his  neighbor  a 
most  agreeable  companion.  They  talked  principally  about 
Lisle  Court,  and  from  Colonel  Maltravers  the  conversation 
turned  naturally  upon  Ernest.  Vargrave  proclaimed  his  early 
intimacy  with  the  latter  gentleman, — complained,  feelingly,  that 
politics  had  divided  them  of  late, — and  told  two  or  three  anec- 
dotes of  their  youthful  adventures  in  the  East.  Mr.  Onslow 
listened  to  him  with  much  attention. 

"  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Maltravers  many  years 
ago,"  said  he,  "  and  upon  a  very  delicate  occasion.  I  was 
greatly  interested  in  him, — I  never  saw  one  so  young  (for  he 
was  then  but  a  boy)  manifest  feelings  so  deep.  By  the  dates 
you  have  referred  to,  your  acquaintance  with  him  must  have 
commenced  very  shortly  after  mine.  Was  he,  at  that  time, 
cheerful — in  good  spirits  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed — hypochondriacal  to  the  greatest  degree." 

"Your  lordship's  intimacy  with  him,  and  the  confidence  that 
generally  exists  between  young  men,  induce  me  to  suppose  that 
he  may  have  told  you  a  little  romance  connected  with  his  early 
years." 

Lumley  paused  to  consider  ;  and  this  conversation,  which 
had  been  carried  on  apart,  was  suddenly  broken  into  by  the  tall 
doctor,  who  wanted  to  know  whether  his  lordship  had  ever  heard 
the  anecdote  about  Lord  Thurlow  and  the  late  King.  The 
anecdote  was  as  long  as  the  doctor  himself ;  and  when  it  was 
over,  the  gentlemen  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  all  con- 
versation was  immediately  drowned  by  "  Row,  brothers,  row," 
which  had  only  been  suspended  till  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Tiddy, 
who  had  a  fine  bass  voice. 

Alas  !  eighteen  years  ago,  in  that  spot  of  earth,  Alice  Darvil 
had  first  caught  the  soul  of  music  from  the  lips  of  Genius  and 
of  Love  !  But  better  as  it  is — less  romantic,  but  more  proper — 
as  Hobbs'  Lodge  was  less  pretty,  but  more  safe  from  the  winds 
and  rains,  than  Dale  Cottage. 

Miss  Bridget  ventured  to  ask  the  good-humored  Lord  Var- 
grave if  he  sang  ?  "  Not  I,  Miss  Hobbs — but  Howard,  there — 
Ah,  if  you  heard  him  !  "  The  consequence  of  this  hint  was, 
that  the  unhappy  secretary,  who  alone,  in  a  distant  corner,  was 
unconsciously  refreshing  his  fancy  with  some  cool  weak  coffee, 
was  instantly  beset  with  applications  from  Miss  Bridget,  Mrs. 
Tiddy,  Mr.  Tiddy  and  the  tall  doctor,  to  favor  the  company 
with  a  specimen  of  his  talents.  Mr.  Howard  could  sing — he 
could  even  play  the  guitar,     But  to  sing  at  Hobbs'  Lodge — to 


244  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

sing  to  the  accompaniment  of  Mrs.  Tiddy — to  have  his  gentle 
tenor  crushed  to  death  in  a  glee  by  the  heavy  splay-foot  of  Mr. 
Tiddy's  manly  bass — the  thought  was  insufferable  !  He  fal- 
tered forth  assurances  of  his  ignorance,  and  hastened  to  bury 
his  resentment  in  the  retirement  of  a  remote  sofa.  Vargrave, 
who  had  forgotten  the  significant  question  of  Mr.  Onslow,  re- 
newed in  a  whisper  his  conversation  with  that  gentleman  rela- 
tive to  the  meditated  investment,  while  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Tiddy 
sang,  "  Come  dwell  with  me  ;"  and  Onslow  was  so  pleased  with 
his  new  acquaintance,  that  he  volunteered  to  make  a  fourth  in 
Lumley's  carriage  the  next  morning,  and  accompany  him  to 
Lisle  Court.  This  settled,  the  party  soon  afterwards  broke  up. 
At  midnight  Lord  Vargrave  was  fast  asleep ;  and  Mr.  Howard 
tossing  restlessly  to  and  fro  on  his  melancholy  couch,  was  re- 
volving all  the  hardships  that  await  a  native  of  St.  James's,  who 
ventures  forth  among 

"  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  But  how  were  these  doubts  to  be  changed  into  absolute  certainty?" 

— Edgar  Huntley. 

The  next  morning,  while  it  was  yet  dark.  Lord  Vargrave's 
carriage  picked  up  Mr.  Onslow  at  the  door  of  a  large  old-fash- 
ioned house,  at  the  entrance  of  the  manufacturing  town  of . 

The  party  were  silent  and  sleepy,  till  they  arrived  at  Lisle 
Court, — the  sun  had  then  appeared — the  morning  was  clear — 
the  air  frosty  and  bracing.  And  as,  after  traversing  a  noble 
park,  a  superb  quadrangular  pile  of  brick,  flanked  by  huge 
square  turrets,  coped  with  stone,  broke  upon  the  gaze  of  Lord 
Vargrave,  his  worldly  heart  swelled  within  him,  and  the  image 
of  Evelyn  became  inexpressibly  lovely  and  seductive. 

Though  the  housekeeper  was  not  prepared  for  Vargrave's 
arrival  at  so  early  an  hour,  yet  he  had  been  daily  expected  :  the 
logs  soon  burned  bright  in  the  ample  hearth  of  the  breakfast- 
room — the  urn  hissed — the  cutlets  smoked — and  while  the  rest 
of  the  party  gathered  round  the  fire,  and  unmuffled  themselves 
of  cloaks  and  shawl-handkerchiefs,  Vargrave  seizing  upon  the 
housekeeper  traversed  with  delighted  steps  the  magnificent  suite 
of  rooms — gazed  on  the  pictures — admired  the  state  bed- 
chambers— peeped  into  the  offices — and  recognized  in  all  a 
mansion  worthy  of  a  Peer  of  England  ;  but  which  a  more  pru- 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  245 

dent  man  would  have  thought,  with  a  sigh,  required  careful 
management  of  the  rent-roll  raised  from  the  property  adequately 
to  equip  and  maintain.  Such  an  idea  did  not  cross  the  mind 
of  Vargrave  ;  he  only  thought  how  much  he  should  be  honored 
and  envied,  when,  as  Secretary  of  State,  he  should  yearly  fill 
those  feudal  chambers  with  the  pride  and  rank  of  England  I 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  extraordinary  sanguineness  and  self- 
confidence  of  Vargrave,  that  he  entirely  overlooked  one  slight 
obstacle  to  this  prospect,  in  the  determined  refusal  of  Evelyn 
to  accept  that  passionate  homage  which  he  offered  to — her 
fortune  ! 

When  breakfast  was  over  the  steward  was  called  in,  and  the 
party,  mounted  upon  ponies,  set  out  to  reconnoitre.  After 
spending  the  short  day  most  agreeably  in  looking  over  the  gar- 
dens, pleasure-grounds,  park,  and  home-farm,  and  settling  to 
visit  the  more  distant  parts  of  the  property  the  next  day,  the 
party  were  returning  home  to  dine,  when  Vargrave's  eye  caught 
the  glittering  whim  of  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins. 

He  pointed  it  out  to  Mr.  Onslow,  and  laughed  much  at  hear- 
ing of  the  annoyance  it  occasioned  to  Colonel  Maltravers. 
'*  Thus,"  said  Lumley,  "  do  we  all  crumple  the  rose-leaf  under 
us,  and  quarrel  with  couches  the  most  luxuriant !  As  for  me, 
I  will  wager,  that  were  this  property  mine,  or  my  ward's,  in 
three  weeks  we  should  have  won  the  heart  of  Sir  Gregory,  made 
him  pull  down  his  ivJiim,  and  coaxed  him  out  of  his  interest  in 

the  city  of .     A  good  seat  for  you,  Howard,  some  day  or 

other." 

"  Sir  Gregory  has  prodigiously  bad  taste,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs. 
"  For  my  part,  I  think  that  there  ought  to  be  a  certain  modest 
simplicity  in  the  display  of  wealth  got  in  business ; — that  was 
my  poor  father's  maxim." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Vargrave,  '*  Hobbs'  Lodge  is  a  specimen.  Who 
was  your  predecessor  in  that  charming  retreat  ?  " 

"  Why  the  place — then  called  Dale  Cottage — belonged  to  a 
Mr.  Berners,  a  rich  bachelor  in  business,  vvho  was  rich  enough 
not  to  mind  what  people  said  of  him,  and  kept  a  lady  there. 
She  ran  off  from  him,  and  he  then  let  it  to  some  young  man — 
a  stranger — very  eccentric,  I  hear — a  Mr. — Mr.  Butler — and  he, 
too,  gave  the  cottage  an  unlawful  attraction — a  most  beautiful 
girl,  I  have  heard." 

"Butler!"  echoed  Vargrave — "Butler — Butler!" — Lumley 
recollected  that  such  had  been  the  real  name  of  Mrs.  Cameron. 

Onslow  looked  hard  at  Vargrave. 

"  You  recognize  the  name,  my  lord,"  said  he  in  a  whisper,  as 


24^  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Hobbs  had  turned  to  address  himself  to  Mr.  Howard.  "  I 
thought  you  very  discreet  when  I  asked  you,  last  night,  if  you 
remembered  the  early  follies  of  your  friend."  A  suspicion  at. 
once  flashed  upon  the  quick  mind  of  Vargrave : — Butler  was  a 
name  on  the  mother's  side  in  the  family  of  Maltravers ;  the 
gloom  of  Ernest  when  he  first  knew  him — the  boy's  hints  that 
the  gloom  was  connected  with  the  affections — the  extraordinary 
and  single  accomplishment  of  Lady  Vargrave  in  that  art  of 
which  Maltravers  was  so  consummate  a  master — the  similarity 
of  name — all  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  meaning  question 
of  Mr.  Onslow,  were  enough  to  suggest  to  Vargrave  that  he 
might  be  on  the  verge  of  a  family  secret,  the  knowledge  of 
which  could  be  turned  to  advantage.  He  took  care  not  to  con- 
fess his  ignorance,  but  artfully  proceeded  to  draw  out  Mr.  On- 
slow's communications. 

"  Why,  it  is  true,"  said  he,  "  that  Maltravers  and  I  had  no 
secrets.  Ah  !  we  were  wild  fellows  then — the  name  of  Butler 
is  in  his  family — eh  ?" 

"  It  is.     I  see  you  know  all." 

"  Yes  ;  he  told  me  the  story,  but  it  is  eighteen  years  ago.  Do 
refresh  my  memory. — Howard,  my  good  fellow,  just  ride  on  and 
expedite  dinner ;  Mr.  Hobbs,  will  you  go  with  Mr.  What's-his- 
name,  the  steward,  and  look  over  the  maps,  outgoings,  etc.  ? 
Now,  Mr.  Onslow — so  Maltravers  took  the  cottage,  and  a  lady 
with  it  ? — ay,  I  remember." 

Mr.  Onslow  (who  was  in  fact  that  magistrate  to  whom  Ernest 
had  confided  his  name  and  committed  the  search  after  Alice, 
and  who  was  really  anxious  to  know  if  any  tidings  of  the  poor 
girl  had  ever  been  ascertained)  here  related  that  history  with 
which  the  reader  is  acquainted ; — the  robbery  of  the  cottage — 
the  disappearance  of  Alice — the  suspicions  that  connected  that 
disappearance  with  her  ruffian  father — the  despair  and  searcli 
of  Maltravers.  He  added  that  Ernest,  both  before  his  depart- 
ure from  England,  and  on  his  return,  had  written  to  him  to 
learn  if  Alice  had  ever  been  heard  of  ;  the  replies  of  the  magis- 
trate were  unsatisfactory.  "And  do  you  think,  my  lord,  that 
Mr.  Maltravers  has  never  to  this  day  ascertained  what  became 
of  the  poor  young  woman  ? " 

"Why,  let  me  see, — what  was  her  name  ?" 

The  magistrate  thought  a  moment,  and  replied,  "Alice 
Darvil." 

"  Alice  !  "  exclaimed  Vargrave.  "  Alice  !  "  aware  that  such 
was  the  Christian  name  of  his  uncle's  wife,  and  now  almost  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  his  first  vague  suspicion. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES.  247 

"You  seem  to  know  the  name." 

**  Of  Alice  ;  yes — but  not  Darvil,  No,  no  ;  I  believe  he  has 
never  heard  of  the  girl  to  this  hour.     Nor  you  either?" 

"  I  have  not.  One  little  circumstance  related  to  me  by  Mr. 
Hobbs,  your  surveyor's  father,  gave  me  some  uneasiness.  About 
two  years  after  the  young  woman  disappeared,  a  girl,  of  very 
humble  dress  and  appearance,  stopped  at  the  gate  of  Hobbs' 
Lodge,  and  asked  earnestly  for  Mr.  Butler.  On  hearing  he  was 
gone,  she  turned  away,  and  was  seen  no  more.  It  seems  that 
this  girl  had  an  infant  in  her  arms — which  rather  shocked  the 
propriety  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobbs.  The  old  gentleman  told 
me  the  circumstance  a  few  days  after  it  happened,  and  I  caused 
inquiry  to  be  made  for  the  stranger ;  but  she  could  not  be 
discovered.  I  thought  at  first  this  possibly  might  be  the  lost 
Alice  ;  but  I  learned  that,  during  his  stay  at  the  cottage,  your 
friend — despite  his  error,  which  we  will  not  stop  to  excuse, — 
had  exercised  so  generous  and  wide  a  charity  amongst  the 
poor  in  the  town  and  neighborhood,  that  it  was  a  more  proba- 
ble supposition  of  the  two,  that  the  girl  belonged  to  some 
family  he  had  formerly  relieved,  and  her  visit  was  that  of  a 
mendicant,  not  a  mistress.  Accordingly,  after  much  consider- 
ation, I  resolved  not  to  mention  the  circumstance  to  Mr.  Mal- 
travers,  when  he  wrote  to  me  on  his  return  from  the  Continent. 
A  considerable  time  had  then  elapsed  since  the  girl  had  applied 
to  Mr.  Hobbs ;  all  trace  of  her  was  lost — the  incident  might 
open  wounds  that  time  must  have  nearly  healed — might  give 
false  hopes — or,  what  was  worse,  occasion  a  fresh  and  unfounded 
remorse  at  the  idea  of  Alice's  destitution  ;  it  would,  in  fact, 
do  no  good,  and  might  occasion  much  unnecessary  pain.  I 
therefore  suppressed  all  mention  of  it." 

"  You  did  right ;  and  so  the  poor  girl  had  an  infant  in  her 
arms  ? — humph !  What  sort  of  looking  person  was  this  Alice 
Darvil? — pretty,  of  course?" 

"  I  never  saw  her ;  and  none  but  the  persons  employed  in 
the  premises  knew  her  by  sight — they  described  her  as  remark- 
ably lovely." 

"  Fair  and  slight, — with  blue  eyes,  J  suppose  ? — those  are  the 
orthodox  requisites  of  a  heroine." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  forget ;— indeed  I  should  never  have  re- 
membered as  much  as  I  do,  if  tlie  celebrity  of  Mr.  Maltravers, 
and  the  consequence  of  his  family  in  these  parts,  together  with 
the  sight  of  his  own  agony — the  most  painful  I  ever  witnessed — 
had  not  served  to  impress  the  whole  affair  very  deeply  on  my 
mind." 


248  ALICE  ,    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

**  Was  the  girl  who  appeared  at  tlie  gate  of  Hobbs*  Lodge 
described  to  you?" 

"  No  ; — 'they  scarcely  observed  her  countenance,  except  that 
her  complexion  was  too  fair  for  a  gipsy's  ; — yet,  now  I  think  of 
it,  Mrs.  Tiddy,  who  was  with  her  father  when  he  told  me  the 
adventure,  dwelt  particularly  on  her  having  (as  you  so  pleasantly 
conjecture)  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes.  Mrs.  Tiddy,  being  just 
married,  was  romantic  at  that  day." 

"  Well,  it  is  an  odd  tale. — But  life  is  full  of  odd  tales.  Here 
we  are  at  the  house — it  really  is  a  splendid  old  place  !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

•'  Pendent  opera  interrupta."  * — Virgil. 

The  history  Vargrave  had  heard,  he  revolved  much  when  he 
retired  to  rest.  He  could  not  but  allow  that  there  was  still 
little  ground  for  more  than  conjecture,  that  Alice  Darvil  and 
Alice  Lady  Vargrave  were  one  and  the  same  person.  It  might, 
however,  be  of  great  importance  to  him  to  trace  this  conjecture 
to  certainty.  The  knowledge  of  a  secret  of  early  sin  and 
degradation  in  one  so  pure,  so  spotless,  as  Lady  Vargrave, 
might  be  of  immense  service  in  giving  him  a  power  over  her, 
which  he  could  turn  to  account  with  Evelyn.  How  could  he 
best  prosecute  further  inquiry  ? — by  repairing  to  Brook-Green — • 
or — the  thought  struck  him — by  visiting  and  "pumping"  Mrs. 

Leslie,    the   patroness  of  Mrs.  Butler  of  C ,  the  friend  of 

Lady  Vargrave?  It  was  worth  trying  the  latter — it  was  little 
out  of  his  way  back  to  London.  His  success  in  picking  the 
brains  of  Mr.  Onslow  of  a  secret  encouraged  him  in  the  hope 
of  equal  success  with  Mrs.  Leslie.  He  decided  accordingly, 
and  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  Christmas  battues,  royal  visitors, 
the  cabinet,  the  premiership  ! — Well,  no  possession  equals  the 
dreams  of  it ! — Sleep  on,  my  lord  ! — you  would  be  restless 
enough  if  you  were  to  get  all  you  want. 

For  the  next  three  days,  Lord  Vargrave  was  employed  in 
examining  the  general  outlines  of  the  estate,  and  the  result  of  this 
survey  satisfied  him  as  to  the  expediency  of  the  purchase.  On 
the  third  day,  he  was  several  miles  from  the  house  when  a 
heavy  rain  came  on.  Lord  Vargrave  was  constitutionally 
hardy,  and,  not  having  been  much  exposed  to  the  visitations 
of  the  weather  of  late  years,  was  not  practically  aware  that, 

♦  The  things  begun  are  interrupted  and  suspended. 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  249 

when  a  man  is  past  forty,  he  cannot  endure  with  impunity  all 
that  falls  innocuously  on  the  elasticity  of  twenty-six.  He  did 
not,  therefore,  heed  the  rain  that  drenched  him  to  the  skin, 
and  neglected  to  change  his  dress  till  he  had  finished  reading 
some  letters  and  newspapers  which  awaited  his  return  at  Lisle 
Court.  The  consequence  of  this  imprudence  was,  that,  the 
next  morning  when  he  woke,  Lord  Vargrave  found  himself,  for 
almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  seriously  ill.  His  head  ached 
violently — cold  shiverings  shook  his  frame  like  an  ague ;  the 
very  strength  of  the  constitution,  on  which  the  fever  had  begun 
to  fasten  itself,  augmented  its  danger.  Lumley — the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  think  of  the  possibility  of  dying — fought  up 
against  his  own  sensations — ordered  his  post-horses,  as  his  visit 
of  survey  was  now  over,  and  scarcely  even  alluded  to  his  indis- 
position. About  an  hour  before  he  set  off,  his  letters  arrived  ; 
one  of  these  informed  him  that  Caroline,  accompanied  by 
Evelyn,  had  already  arrived  in  Paris;  the  other  was  from 
Colonel  Legard,  respectfully  resigning  his  office,  on  the  ground 
of  an  accession  of  fortune  by  the  sudden  death  of  the  admiral, 
and  his  intention  to  spend  the  ensuing  year  in  a  continental 
excursion.  This  last  letter  occasioned  Vargrave  considerable 
alarm  ;  he  had  always  felt  a  deep  jealousy  of  the  handsome  ex- 
guardsman,  and  he  at  once  suspected  that  Legard  was  about  to 
repair  to  Paris  as  his  rival.  He  sighed,  and  looked  round  the 
spacious  apartment,  and  gazed  on  the  wide  prospects  of  grove 
and  turf  that  extended  from  the  window,  and  said  to  himself — 
"Is  another  to  snatch  these  from  my  grasp  ?"  His  impatience 
to  visit  Mrs.  Leslie — to  gain  ascendency  over  Lady  Vargrave — 
to  repair  to  Paris — to  scheme — to  manoeuvre — to  triumph — 
accelerated  the  progress  of  the  disease  that  was  now  burning 
in  his  veins ;  and  the  hand  that  he  held  out  to  Mr.  Hobbs,  as 
he  stepped  into  his  carriage,  almost  scorched  the  cold,  plump, 
moist  fingers  of  the  surveyor.  Before  six  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, Lord  Vargrave  confessed  reluctantly  to  himself,  that  he 
was  too  ill  to  proceed  much  further.  "  Howard,"  said  he  then, 
breaking  a  silence  that  had  lasted  some  hours,  "don't  be 
alarmed — I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  have  a  severe  attack, — 
I  shall  stop  at  M (naming  a  large  town  they  were  approach- 
ing) ;  I  shall  send  for  the  best  physician  the  place  affords  ;  if 
I  am  delirious  to-morrow,  or  unable  to  give  my  own  orders, 
have  the  kindness  to  send  express  for  Dr.  Holland — but  don't 
leave  me  yourself,  my  good  fellow.  At  my  age,  it  is  a  hard 
thing  to  have  no  one  in  the  world  to  care  for  me  in  illness; 
d — n  affection  when  I  am  well ! " 


250  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

After  this  strange  burst,  which  very  much  frightened  Mr. 
Howard,   Lumley  relapsed   into   silence,   not  broken    till   he 

reached  M .     The  best  physician  was  sent  for :  and  the 

next  morning,  as  he  had  half-foreseen  and  foretold,  Lord  Var- 
grave  was  delirious ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Nought  under  Heaven  so  strongly  doth  allure 
The  sense  of  man,  and  all  his  mind  possess. 
As  Beauty's  love-bait." — Spencer. 

Legard  was,  as  I  have  before  intimated,  a  young  man  of 
generous  and  excellent  dispositions,  though  somewhat  spoiled 
by  the  tenor  of  his  education,  and  the  gay  and  reckless  society 
which  had  administered  tonics  to  his  vanity  and  opiates  to  his 
intellect.  The  effect  which  the  beauty,  the  grace,  the  innocence 
of  Evelyn,  had  produced  upon  him  had  been  most  deep  and 
most  salutary.  It  had  rendered  dissipation  tasteless  and  in- 
sipid— it  had  made  him  look  more  deeply  into  his  own  heart, 
and  into  the  rules  of  life.  Though,  partly  from  the  irksonie- 
ness  of  dependence  upon  an  uncle  at  once  generous  and  un- 
gracious, partly  from  a  diffident  and  feeling  sense  of  his  own 
inadequate  pretensions  to  the  hand  of  Miss  Cameron,  and  partly 
from  the  prior  and  acknowledged  claims  of  Lord  Vargrave — he 
had  accepted,  half  in  despair,  the  appointment  offered  to  him, 
he  still  found  it  impossible  to  banish  tiiat  image  which  had 
been  the  first  to  engrave  upon  ardent  and  fresh  affections  an 
indelible  impression.  He  secretly  chafed  at  the  thought  that 
it  was  to  a  fortunate  rival  that  he  owed  the  independence  and 
the  station  he  had  acquired,  and  resolved  to  seize  an  early  op- 
portunity to  free  himself  from  obligations  that  he  deeply  regret- 
ted he  had  incurred.  At  length  he  learned  that  Lord  Vargrave 
had  been  refused — that  Evelyn  was  free ;  and,  within  a  few 
days  from  that  intelligence,  the  admiral  was  seized  with  apo- 
plexy— and  Legard  suddenly  found  himself  possessed,  if  not 
of  wealth,  at  least  of  a  competence  sufficient  to  redeem  his 
character  as  a  suitor  from  the  suspicion  attached  to  a  fortune- 
hunter  and  adventurer.  Despite  the  new  prospects  opened  to 
him  by  the  death  of  his  uncle,  and  despite  the  surly  caprice 
which  had  mingled  with  and  alloyed  the  old  admiral's  kindness, 
Legard  was  greatly  shocked  by  his  death  ;  and  his  grateful  and 
gentle  nature  was  at  first  only  sensible  to  grief  for  the  loss  he 
had  sustained.     But  when,  at  last,  recovering  from  his  sorrow, 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  251 

he  saw  Evelyn  disengaged  and  free,  and  himself  in  a  position 
honorably  to  contest  her  hand,  he  could  not  resist  the  sweet 
and  passionate  hopes  that  broke  upon  him.  He  resigned,  as 
we  have  seen,  his  official  appointment  and  set  out  for  Paris. 
He  reached  that  city  a  day  or  two  after  the  arrival  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Doltimore.  He  found  the  former,  who  had  not  forgotten 
the  cautions  of  Vargrave,  at  first  cold  and  distant  ;  but  partly 
from  the  indolent  habit  of  submitting  to  Legard's  dictates  on 
matters  of  taste,  partly  from  a  liking  to  his  society,  and  prin- 
cipally from  the  popular  suffrages  of  fashion,  which  had  always 
been  accorded  to  Legard,  and  which  were  noways  diminished 
by  the  news  of  his  accession  of  fortune — Lord  Doltimore,  weak 
and  vain,  speedily  yielded  to  the  influences  of  his  old  associate, 
and  Legard  became  quietly  installed  as  the  enfant  de  la  maison. 
Caroline  was  not  in  this  instance  a  very  faithful  ally  to  Var- 
grave's  views  and  policy.  In  his  singular  liaison  with  Lady 
Doltimore,  the  crafty  manoeuverer  had  committed  the  vulgar 
fault  of  intriguers  :  he  was  over-refined,  and  had  overreached 
himself.  At  the  commencement  of  their  strange  and  unprin- 
cipled intimacy,  Vargrave  had  had,  perhaps,  no  other  thought 
than  that  of  piquing  Evelyn,  consoling  his  vanity,  amusing  his 
ennui,  and  indulging  rather  his  propensities  as  a  gallant,  than 
promoting  his  more  serious  objects  as  a  man  of  the  world.  By 
degrees,  and  especially  at  Knaresdean,  Vargrave  himself  became 
deeply  entangled  by  an  affair  that  he  had  never  before  con- 
templated as  more  important  than  a  passing  diversion  :  instead 
of  securing  a  friend  to  assist  him  in  his  designs  on  Evelyn,  he 
suddenly  found  that  he  had  obtained  a  mistress  anxious  for 
his  love,  and  jealous  of  his  homage.  With  his  usual  promptitude 
and  self-confidence,  he  Avas  led  at  once  to  deliver  himself  of  all 
the  ill  consequences  of  his  rashness — to  get  rid  of  Caroline  as 
a  mistress — and  to  retain  her  as  a  tool,  by  marrying  her  to 
Lord  Doltimore.  By  the  great  ascendency  which  his  character 
acquired  over  her,  and  by  her  own  worldly  ambition,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  inducing  her  to  sacrifice  all  romance  to  an  union 
that  gave  her  rank  and  fortune  ;  and  Vargrave  then  rested 
satisfied,  that  the  clever  wife  would  not  only  secure  him  a  per- 
manent power  over  the  political  influence  and  private  fortune 
of  the  weak  husband,  but  also  abet  his  designs  in  securing  an 
alliance  equally  desirable  for  himself.  Here  it  was  that  Var- 
grave's  incapacity  to  understand  the  refinements  and  scruples 
of  a  woman's  affection  and  nature,  however  guilty  the  one,  and 
however  worldly  the  other,  foiled  and  deceived  him.  Caroline, 
though  the  wife  of  another,   could  not  contemplate,  without 


852  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

anguish,  a  similar  bondage  for  her  lover  ;  and,  having  some- 
thing of  the  better  qualities  of  her  sex  still  left  to  her,  she 
recoiled  from  being  an  accomplice  in  arts  that  were  to  drive 
the  young,  inexperienced,  and  guileless  creature  who  called  her 
"  friend  "  into  the  arms  of  a  man  who  openly  avowed  the  most 
mercenary  motives,  and  who  took  gods  and  men  to  witness  that 
his  heart  was  sacred  to  another.  Only  in  Vargrave's  presence 
were  these  scruples  overmastered  ;  but  the  moment  he  was 
gone  they  returned  in  full  force  :  she  had  yielded,  from  positive 
fear,  to  his  commands  that  she  should  convey  Evelyn  to  Paris; 
but  she  trembled  to  think  of  the  vague  hints  and  dark  menaces 
that  Vargrave  had  let  fall  as  to  ulterior  proceedings,  and  was 
distracted  at  the  thought  of  being  implicated  in  some  villainous 
or  rash  design.  When,  therefore,  the  man  whose  rivalry  Var- 
grave most  feared  was  almost  established  at  her  home,  she  made 
but  a  feeble  resistance :  she  thought  that,  if  Legard  should 
become  a  welcome  and  accepted  suitor  before  Lumley  arrived, 
the  latter  would  be  forced  to  forego  whatever  hopes  he  yet 
cherished,  and  that  she  should  be  delivered  from  a  dilemma, 
the  prospect  of  which  daunted  and  appalled  her.  Added  to 
this,  Caroline  was  now,  alas  !  sensible  that  a  fool  is  not  so  easily 
governed — her  resistance  to  an  intimacy  with  Legard  would 
have  been  of  little  avail :  Doltimore,  in  these  matters,  had  an 
obstinate  will  of  his  own  ;  and,  whatever  might  once  have  been 
Caroline's  influence  over  her  liege,  certain  it  is  that  such  influ- 
ence had  been  greatly  impaired  of  late  by  the  indulgence  of  a 
temper,  always  irritable,  and  now  daily  more  soured  by  regret, 
remorse,  contempt  for  her  husband, — and  the  melancholy  dis- 
covery that  fortune,  youth,  beauty,  and  station  are  no  talismans 
against  misery. 

It  was  the  gayest  season  of  Paris  ;  and,  to  escape  from  her- 
self, Caroline  plunged  eagerly  into  the  vortex  of  its  dissipations. 
If  Doltimore's  heart  was  disappointed,  his  vanity  was  pleased 
at  the  admiration  Caroline  excited  ;  and  he  himself  was  of  an 
age  and  temper  to  share  in  the  pursuits  and  amusements  of  his 
wife.  Into  these  gayeties,  new  to  their  fascination,  dazzled  by 
their  splendor,  the  young  Evelyn  entered  with  her  hostess  ; 
and  ever  by  her  side  was  the  unequalled  form  of  Legard.  Each  of 
them  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  each  of  them  at  once  formed  to 
please,  and  to  be  pleased  by,  that  fair  Armida  which  we  call  the 
World,  there  was,  necessarily,  a  certain  congeniality  in  their 
views  and  sentiments,  their  occupations  and  their  objects  ;  nor 
was  there,  in  all  that  brilliant  city,  one  more  calculated  to  cap- 
tivate the  eye  and  fancy  than  George  Legard.     But  still,  to  9 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  253 

certain  degree,*diffident  and  fearful,  Legard  never  yet  spoke  of 
love;  nor  did  their  intimacy  at  this  time  ripen  to  that  point  in 
which  Evelyn  could  have  asked  herself  if  there  were  danger  in 
the  society  of  Legard,  or  serious  meaning  in  his  obvious  ad- 
miration. Whether  that  melancholy,  to  which  Lady  Vargrave 
had  alluded  in  her  correspondence  with  Lumley,  were  occa- 
sioned by  thoughts  connected  with  Maltravers,  or  unacknowl- 
edged recollections  of  Legard,  it  remains  for  the  acute  reader 
himself  to  ascertain. 

The  Doltimores  had  been  about  three  weeks  in  Paris  ;  and, 
for  a  fortnight  of  that  time,  Legard  had  been  their  constant 
guest,  and  half  the  inmate  of  their  hotel ;  when,  on  that  night 
which  has  been  commemorated  in  our  last  book,  Maltravers 
suddenly  once  more  beheld  the  face  of  Evelyn,  and  in  the  same 
hour  learned  that  she  was  free  ;  he  quitted  Valerie's  box  :  with 
a  burning  pulse  and  a  beating  heart,  joy  and  surprise  and  hope 
sparkling  in  his  eyes,  and  brightening  his  whole  aspect,  he  hast- 
ened to  Evelyn's  side. 

It  was  at  this  time  Legard,  who  sate  behind  Miss  Cameron, 
unconscious  of  the  approach  of  a  rival,  happened,  by  one  of 
those  chances  which  occur  in  conversation,  to  mention  the 
name  of  Maltravers.     He  asked  Evelyn  if  she  had  yet  met  him? 

''What!  is  he  then  in  Paris?"  asked  Evelyn  quickly.  "I 
heard,  indeed,"  she  continued,  "  that  he  left  Burleigh  for  Paris, 
but  imagined  he  had  gone  on  to  Italy." 

"  No,  he  is  still  here ;  but  he  goes,  I  believe,  little  into  the 
society  Lady  Doltimore  chiefly  visits.  Is  he  one  of  your  favor- 
ites, Miss  Cameron  ?" 

There  was  a  slight  increase  of  color  in  Evelyn's  beautiful 
cheek,  as  she  answered  : 

"  Is  it  possible  not  to  admire  and  be  interested  in  one  so 
gifted  ? " 

"  He  has  certainly  noble  and  fine  qualities,"  returned  Legard; 
"  but  I  cannot  feel  at  ease  with  him  ;  a  coldness — a  hauteur — 
a  measured  distance  of  manner — seem  to  forbid  even  esteem. 
Yet  /  ought  not  to  say  so,"  he  added,  with  a  pang  of  self- 
reproach. 

"  No,  indeed,  you  ought  not  to  say  so,"  said  Evelyn,  shaking 
her  head  with  a  pretty  affectation  of  anger  ;  "  for  I  know  that 
you  pretend  to  like  what  I  like,  and  admire  what  I  admire  ; 
and  I  am  an  enthusiast  in  all  that  relates  to  Mr.  Maltravers ! " 

"  I  know  that  I  would  wish  to  see  all  things  through  Miss 
Cameron's  eyes,"  whispered  Legard  softly  ;  and  this  was  the 
ino^t  jneaning  speech  he  had  ever  yet  made, 


254  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Evelyn  turned  away,  and  seemed  absorbed  in  the  opera  ;  and 
at  that  instant  the  door  of  the  box  opened,  and  Maltravers 
entered. 

In  her'open,  undisguised,  youthful  delight  at  seeing  him  again, 
Maltravers  felt  indeed  "  as  if  Paradise  were  opened  in  her  face." 
In  his  own  agitated  emotions,  he  scarcely  noticed  that  Legard 
had  risen  and  resigned  his  seat  to  him  :  he  availed  himself  of 
the  civility,  greeted  his  old  acquaintance  with  a  smile  and  bow 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  in  deep  converse  with  Evelyn. 

Never  had  he  so  successfully  exerted  the  singular,  the  master- 
fascination  that  he  could  command  at  will — the  more  powerful, 
from  its  contrast  to  his  ordinary  coldness  :  in  the  very  expression 
of  his  eyes — the  very  tone  of  his  voice — there  was  that  in  Mal- 
travers, seen  at  his  happier  moments,  which  irresistibly  inter- 
ested and  absorbed  your  attention  :  he  could  make  you  forget 
everything  but  himself,  and  the  rich,  easy,  yet  earnest  elo- 
quence, which  gave  color  to  his  language  and  melody  to  his 
voice.  In  that  hour  of  renewed  intercourse  with  one  who  had 
at  first  awakened,  if  not  her  heart,  at  least  her  imagination  and 
her  deeper  thoughts,  certain  it  is  that  even  Legard  was  not 
missed.  As  she  smiled  and  listened,  Evelyn  dreamt  not  of  the 
anguish  she  inflicted.  Leaning  against  the  back  of  the  box, 
Legard  surveyed  the  absorbed  attention  of  Evelyn,  the  adoring 
eyes  of  Maltravers,  with  that  utter  and  crushed  wretchedness 
which  no  passion  but  jealousy,  and  that  only  while  it  is  yet  a  virgin 
agony  can  bestow  !  He  had  never  before  even  dreamt  of  rivalry 
in  such  a  quarter ;  but  there  was  the  ineffable  instinct,  which 
lovers  have,  and  which  so  seldom  errc,  that  told  him  at  once 
that  in  Maltravers  was  the  greatest  obstacb  and  peril  his  pas- 
sion could  encounter.  He  waited  in  hopes  that  Evelyn  would 
take  the  occasion  to  turn  to  him  at  least — when  the  fourth  act 
closed.  She  did  not  ;  and,  unable  to  constain  his  emotions, 
and  reply  to  the  small-talk  of  Lord  Doltimore,  he  abruptly 
quitted  the  box. 

When  the  opera  was  over,  Maltravers  offered  his  arm  to  Eve- 
lyn ;  she  accepted  it,  and  then  she  looked  round  for  Legard. 
He  was  gone. 


AUdE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSf  feRifis.  i^^ 


BOOK  VIII. 

Q  Zev,  tI  fiov  dpaaat  ^e^oijT^eveat  iripi ; 
O  Fate  !  O  Heaven  ! — what  have  ye  then  decreed  ? — Soph.  (Ed.  Tyr. 

rcppig,  *  *  * 

^i  *  *  * 

aKpordrav  elaava^aa'  androfiov 
upovaiv  viv  Eig  avdynav. — Jbib.  874. 

Insolent  pride  *  * 

*  *  *  * 

The  topmost  crag  of  the  great  precipice 
Surmounts — to  rush  to  ruin. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*  *    ««  She  is  young,  wise,  fair. 
In  these  to  Nature  she's  immediate  heir. 

*  *  *  * 

*  *    Honors  best  thrive, 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 

Than  our  foregoers  !  "—AlFs  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

LETTER  FROM  ERNEST    MALTRAVERS   TO    THE    HON.  FREDERICK 
CLEVELAND, 

"  Evelyn  is  free — she  is  in  Paris — I  have  seen  her — I  see 
her  daily. 

"  How  true  it  is  that  we  cannot  make  a  philosophy  of  indif- 
ference? The  affections  are  stronger  than  all  our  reasonings. 
We  must  take  them  into  our  alliance,  or  they  will  destroy  all 
our  theories  of  self-government.  Such  fools  of  fate  are  we, 
passing  from  system  to  system — from  scheme  to  scheme — vain- 
ly seeking  to  shut  out  passion  and  sorrow — forgetting  that  they 
are  born  within  us — and  return  to  the  soul  as  the  seasons  to 
the  earth  !  Yet, — years,  many  years  ago — when  I  first  looked 
gravely  into  my  own  nature  and  being  here — when  I  first  awak- 
ened to  the  dignity  and  solemn  responsibilities  of  human  life — 
I  had  resolved  to  curb  and  tame  myself  into  a  thing  of  rule  and 
measure.  Bearing  within  me  the  wound  scarred  over  but  never 
healed — the  consciousness  of  wrong  to  the  heart  that  had  leaned 


i$b  AUCfe  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

upon  me — haunted  by  the  mournful  memory  of  my  lost  Alice— 
I  shuddered  at  new  affections  bequeathing  new  griefs.  Wrapped 
in  a  haughty  egotism,  I  wished  not  to  extend  my  empire  over  a 
wider  circuit  than  my  own  intellect  and  passions.  I  turned 
from  the  trader-covetousness  of  bliss,  that  would  freight  the 
wealth  of  life  upon  barks  exposed  to  every  wind  upon  the  seas 
of  Fate — I  was  contented  with  the  hope  to  pass  life  alone,  hon- 
ored, though  unloved.  Slowly  and  reluctantly  I  yielded  to  the 
fascinations  of  Florence  Lascelles.  The  hour  that  sealed  the 
compact  between  us  was  one  of  regret  and  alarm.  In  vain  I 
sought  to  deceive  myself — I  felt  that  I  did  not  love.  And  then 
I  imagined  that  Love  was  no  longer  in  my  nature — that  I  had 
exhausted  its  treasures  before  my  time,  and  left  my  heart  a 
bankrupt.  Not  till  the  last — not  till  that  glorious  soul  broke 
out  in  all  its  brightness,  the  nearer  it  approached  the  source  to 
which  it  has  returned — did  I  feel  of  what  tenderness  she  was 
worthy  and  I  was  capable.  She  died,  and  the  world  was  dark- 
ened !  Energy — ambition — my  former  aims  and  objects — were 
all  sacrificed  at  her  tomb.  But  amidst  ruins  and  through  the 
darkness,  my  soul  yet  supported  me ;  I  could  no  longer  hope, 
but  I  could  endure.  I  was  resolved  that  I  would  not  be  sub- 
dued, and  that  the  world  should  not  hear  me  groan.  Amidst 
strange  and  far-distant  scenes — amidst  hordes  to  whom  my  very 
language  was  unknown — in  wastes  and  forests  which  the  step  of 
civilized  man,  with  his  sorrows  and  his  dreams,  had  never 
trodden — I  wrestled  with  my  soul,  as  the  patriarch  of  old  wrest- 
led with  the  angel — and  the  angel  was  at  last  the  victor !  You 
do  not  mistake  me — you  know  that  it  was  not  the  death  of 
Florence  alone  that  worked  in  me  that  awful  revolution,  but 
with  that  death  the  last  glory  fled  from  the  face  of  things,  that 
had  seemed  to  me  beautiful  of  old.  Hers  was  a  love  that  ac- 
companied and  dignified  the  schemes  and  aspirations  of  man- 
hood— a  love  that  was  an  incarnation  of  ambition  itself  ;  and 
all  the  evils  and  disappointments  that  belong  to  ambition  seemed 
to  crowd  around  my  heart  like  vultures  to  a  feast,  allured  and 
invited  by  the  dead.  But  this  at  length  was  over  ;  the  bar- 
barous state  restored  me  to  the  civilized.  I  returned  to  my 
equals,  prepared  no  more  to  be  an  actor  in  the  strife,  but  a  calm 
spectator  of  the  turbulent  arena.  I  once  more  laid  my  head 
beneath  the  roof  of  my  fathers  ;  and,  if  without  any  clear  and 
definite  object,  I  at  least  hoped  to  find  amidst  '  my  old  heredi- 
tary trees '  the  charm  of  contemplation  and  repose.  And 
scarce — in  the  first  hours  of  my  arrival — had  I  indulged  that 
dream,  when  a  fair  face,  a  sweet  voice,  that  had  once  before 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  ^57 

left  deep  and  unobliterated  impressions  on  my  heart,  scattered 
all  my  philosophy  to  the  winds.  I  saw  Evelyn  !  and  if  ever 
there  was  love  at  first  sight,  it  was  that  which  I  felt  for  her  :  I 
lived  in  her  presence,  and  forgot  the  Future  !  Or,  rather,  I  was 
with  the  Past — in  the  bowers  of  my  springtide  of  life  and  hope  ! 
It  was  an  afterbirth  of  youth — my  love  for  that  young  heart  ! 

"  It  is,  indeed,  only  in  maturity  that  we  know  how  lovely 
were  our  earliest  years  !  What  depth  of  wisdom  in  the  old 
Greek  myth,  that  allotted  Hebe  as  the  prize  to  the  God  who 
had  been  the  Arch-Laborer  of  life  !  and  whom  the  satiety  of 
all  that  results  from  experience  had  made  enamoured  of  all  that 
belongs  to  the  Hopeful  and  the  New  ! 

"This  enchanting  child — this  delightful  Evelyn — this  ray  of 
undreamt-of  sunshine — smiled  away  all  my  palaces  of  ice  !  I 
loved,  Cleveland — I  loved  more  ardently,  more  passionately, 
more  wildly  than  ever  I  did  of  old  !  But,  suddenly  I  learned 
that  she  was  affianced  to  another,  and  felt  that  it  was  not  for 
me  to  question,  to  seek  the  annulment  of  the  bond.  I  had  been 
unworthy  to  love  Evelyn,  if  I  had  not  loved  Honor  more  !  I 
fled  from  her  presence,  honestly  and  resolutely  ;  I  sought  to 
conquer  a  forbidden  passion  ;  I  believed  that  I  had  not  won 
affection  in  return  ;  I  believed,  from  certain  expressions  that  I 
overheard  Evelyn  utter  to  another,  that  her  heart  as  well  as  her 
hand  was  given  to  Vargrave.  I  came  hither ;  you  know  how 
sternly  and  resolutely  I  strove  to  eradicate  a  weakness  that 
seemed  even  without  justification  of  hope  !  If  I  suffered,  I  be- 
trayed it  not.  Suddenly  Evelyn  appeared  again  before  me  ! — • 
and  suddenly  I  learned  that  she  was  free  !  Oh,  the  rapture  of 
that  moment!  Could  you  have  seen  her  bright  face,  her  en- 
chanting smile,  when  we  met  again  !  Her  ingenuous  innocence 
did  not  conceal  her  gladness  at  seeing  me  !  What  hopes  broke 
upon  me !  Despite  the  difference  of  our  years,  I  think  she 
loves  me  !  that  in  that  love  I  am  about  at  last  to  learn  what 
blessings  there  are  in  life  ! 

"  Evelyn  has  the  simplicity,  the  tenderness,  of  Alice,  with  the 
refinement  and  culture  of  Florence  herself  ;  not  the  genius — 
not  the  daring  spirit — not  the  almost  fearful  brilliancy  of  that 
ill-fated  being — but  with  a  taste  as  true  to  the  Beautiful,  with  a 
soul  as  sensitive  to  the  Sublime  !  In  Evelyn's  presence  I  feel 
a  sense  of  peace,  of  security,  of  home  !  Happy  !  thrice  happy  ! 
he  who  will  take  her  to  his  breast  !  Of  late  she  has  assumed 
a  new  charm  in  my  eyes — a  certain  pensiveness  and  abstraction 
have  succeeded  to  her  wonted  gayety.  Ah  !  Love  is  pensive  ; 
is  it  not,  Cleveland  ?     How  often  I  ask  myself  that  question  I 


258  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

And  yet,  amidst  all  my  hopes,  there  are  hours  when  I  tremble 
and  despond  !  How  can  that  innocent  and  joyous  spirit  sym- 
pathize with  all  that  mine  has  endured  and  known  ?  How, 
even  though  her  imagination  be  dazzled  by  some  prestige  around 
my  name,  how  can  I  believe  that  1  have  awakened  her  heart  to 
that  deep  and  real  love  of  which  it  is  capable,  and  which  youth 
excites  in  youth  ?  When  we  meet  at  her  home,  or  amidst  the 
quiet  yet  brilliant  society  which  is  gathered  round  Madame  de 
Ventadour  or  the  De  Montaignes,  with  whom  she  is  an  especial 
favorite — when  we  converse — when  I  sit  by  her,  and  her  soft 
eyes  meet  mine — I  feel  not  the  disparity  of  years ;  my  heart 
speaks  to  her,  and  that  is  youthful  still !  But  in  the  more  gay 
and  crowded  haunts  to  which  her  presence  allures  me,  when  I 
see  that  fairy  form  surrounded  by  those  who  have  not  outlived 
the  pleasures  that  so  naturally  dazzle  and  captivate  her — then, 
indeed,  I  feel  that  my  tastes,  my  habits,  my  pursuits,  belong  to 
another  season  of  life,  and  ask  myself  anxiously  if  my  nature 
and  my  years  are  those  that  can  make  her  happy  ?  Then,  in- 
deed, I  recognize  the  wide  interval  that  time  and  trial  place 
between  one  whom  the  world  has  wearied,  and  one  for  whom 
the  world  is  new.  If  she  sliould  discover  hereafter  that  youth 
should  love  only  youth,  my  bitterest  anguish  would  be  that  of 
remorse  !  I  know  how  deeply  I  love,  by  knowing  how  immeas- 
urably dearer  her  happiness  is  than  my  own  !  I  will  wait, 
then,  yet  awhile — I  will  examine — I  will  watch  well  that  I  do  not 
deceive  myself.  As  yet,  I  think  I  have  no  rivals  whom  I  heed 
fear  ;  surrounded  as  she  is  by  the  youngest  and  the  gayest,  she 
still  turns  with  evident  pleasure  to  me,  whom  she  calls  her 
friend.  She  will  forego  even  the  amusements  she  most  loves, 
for  society  in  which  we  can  converse  more  at  ease.  You  re- 
member, for  instance,  young  Legard  ? — he  is  here  ;  and  before 
I  met  Evelyn,  was  much  at  Lady  Doltimore's  house.  I  cannot 
be  blind  to  his  superior  advantages  of  youth  and  person  ;  and 
there  is  something  striking  and  prepossessing  in  the  gentle  yet 
manly  frankness  of  his  manner, — and  yet  no  fear  of  his  rival- 
ship  ever  haunts  me.  True,  that  of  late  he  has  been  little  in 
Evelyn's  society;  nor  do  I  think,  in  the  frivolity  of  his  pursuits, 
he  can  have  educated  his  mind  to  appreciate  Evelyn,  or  be  pos- 
sessed of  those  qualities  which  would  render  him  worthy  of  her. 
But  there  is  something  good  in  the  young  man,  despite  his 
foibles — something  that  wins  upon  me  ;  and  you  will  smile  to 
learn,  that  he  has  even  surprised  from  me — usually  so  reserved 
on  such  matters — the  confession  of  my  attachment  and  hopes  ! 
Evelyn  often  talks  to  me  of  her  mother,  and  describes  her  ia 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  259 

colors  SO  glowing,  that  I  feel  the  greatest  interest  in  one  who  has 
helped  to  form  so  beautiful  and  pure  a  mind.  Can  you  learn 
who  Lady  Vargrave  was? — there  is  evidently  some  mystery 
thrown  over  her  birth  and  connections ;  and,  from  what  I  can 
hear,  this  arises  from  their  lowliness.  You  know  that,  though 
I  have  been  accused  of  family  pride,  it  is  a  pride  of  a  peculiar 
sort.  I  am  proud,  not  of  the  length  of  a  mouldering  pedigree, 
but  of  some  historical  quarterings  in  my  escutcheon — of  some 
blood  of  scholars  and  of  heroes  that  rolls  in  my  veins;  it  is  the 
same  kind  of  pride  that  an  Englishman  may  feel  in  belonging 
to  a  country  that  has  produced  Shakespeare  and  Bacon.  I 
have  never,  I  hope,  felt  the  vulgar  pride  that  disdains  want  of 
birth  in  others  ;  and  I  care  not  three  straws  whether  my  wife 
be  descended  from  a  king  or  a  peasant.  It  is  myself,  and  not 
my  connections,  who  alone  can  disgrace  my  lineage  ;  therefore, 
however  humble  Lady  Vargrave's  parentage,  do  not  scruple  to 
inform  me,  should  you  learn  any  intelligence  that  bears  upon  it. 

"  I  had  a  conversation  last  night  with  Evelyn,  that  delighted 
me.  By  some  accident  we  spoke  of  Lord  Vargrave  ;  and  she 
told  me,  with  an  enchanting  candor,  of  the  position  in  which 
she  stood  with  him,  and  the  conscientious  and  noble  scruples  she 
felt  as  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  fortune,  which  her  benefactor  and 
stepfather  had  evidently  intended  to  be  shared  with  his  nearest 
relative.  In  these  scruples  I  cordially  concurred  ;  and  if  I 
marry  Evelyn,  my  first  car2  will  be  to  carry  them  into  effect — 
by  securing  to  Vargrave,  as  far  as  the  law  may  permit,  the 
larger  part  of  the  income — I  should  like  to  say  all — at  least  till 
Evelyn's  children  would  have  the  right  to  claim  it;  a  right  not 
to  be  enforced  during  her  own,  and,  therefore,  probably  not 
during  Vargrave's  life.  I  own  that  this  would  be  no  sacrifice, 
for  I  am  proud  enough  to  recoil  from  the  thought  of  being 
indebted  for  fortune  to  the  woman  I  love.  It  was  that  kind 
of  pride  which  gave  coldness  and  restraint  to  my  regard 
for  Florence ;  and  for  the  rest,  my  own  property  (much 
increased  by  the  simplicity  of  my  habits  of  life  for  the  last 
few  years)  will  suffice  for  all  Evelyn  or  myself  could  re- 
quire. Ah !  madman,  that  I  am  ! — I  calculate  already  on 
marriage,  even  while  I  have  so  much  cause  for  anxiety  as  to 
love.  J3ut  my  heart  beats — my  heart  has  grown  a  dial,  that 
keeps  the  account  of  time  ;  by  its  movements  I  calculate  the 
moments — in  an  hour  I  shall  see  her  ! 

**  Oh  ! — never! — never!  in  my  wildest  and  earliest  visions, 
could  I  have  fancied  that  I  should  love  as  I  love  now  !  Adieu, 
my  oldest  and  kindest  friend  !     If  I  am  happy  at  last,  it  will  be 


a(5d  ALICE  ;    OR,  tHE  MYStfiRlES. 

something  to  feel  that  I  shall  have  satisfied  your  expectations 
of  my  youth. 

"  Affectionately  yours, 

"E.  Maltravers." 

"  Rue  de ,  Paris, 

^'January  — ,  i8 — ." 


CHAPTER  II. 

*        *        *     "  In  her  youth 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect^ 

Such  as  moves  men." — Measure  for  Measure. 

"  Abbess.  Haply  in  private — 
Adriana.  And  in  assemblies  too." — Comedy  of  Errors. 

It  was  true,  as  Maltravers  had  stated,  that  Legard  had  of  late 
been  little  at  Lady  Doltimore's,  or  in  the  same  society  as  Eve- 
lyn. With  the  vehemence  of  an  ardent  and  passionate  nature, 
he  yielded  to  the  jealous  rage  and  grief  that  devoured  him.  He 
saw  too  clearly,  and  from  the  first,  that  Maltravers  adored  Eve- 
lyn ;  and,  in  her  familiar  kindness  of  manner  towards  him,  in 
the  unlimited  veneration  in  which  she  appeared  to  hold  his  gifts 
and  qualities,  he  thought  that  that  love  might  become  recipro- 
cal. He  became  gloomy  and  morose  ; — he  shunned  Evelyn — 
he  forbore  to  enter  into  the  lists  against  his  rival.  Perhaps  the 
intellectual  superiority  of  Maltravers — the  extraordinary  con- 
versational brilliancy  that  he  could  display  when  he  pleased — 
the  commanding  dignity  of  his  manners — even  the  matured 
authority  of  his  reputation  and  years,  might  have  served  to  awe 
the  hopes,  as  well  as  to  wound  the  vanity,  of  a  man  accustomed 
himself  to  be  the  oracle  of  a  circle.  These  might  have  strongly 
influenced  Legard  in  withdrawing  himself  from  Evelyn's  society; 
but  there  was  one  circumstance,  connected  with  motives  much 
more  generous,  that  mainly  determined  his  conduct.  It  hap- 
pened that  Maltravers,  shortly  after  his  first  interview  with  Eve- 
lyn, was  riding  alone  one  day,  in  the  more  sequestered  part  of 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  when  he  encountered  Legard,  also  alone, 
and  on  horseback.  The  latter,  on  succeeding  to  his  uncle's  for- 
tune, had  taken  care  to  repay  his  debt  to  Maltravers ;  he  had 
idone  so  in  a  short,  but  feeling  and  grateful  letter,  which  had 
been  forwarded  to  Maltravers  at  Paris,  and  which  pleased  and 
touched  him.  Since  that  time  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  young 
man,  and  now,  meeting  him  at  Paris,  he  sought,  to  a  certaiu 


AUCE  ;   ok,  tiifi  MYSTEktES.  261 

extent,  Legard's  more  intimate  acquaintance.  Maltravers  was 
in  that  happy  mood,  when  we  are  inclined  to  be  friends  with 
all  men.  It  is  true,  however,  that,  though  unknown  to  himself, 
that  pride  of  bearing,  which  often  gave  to  the  very  virtues  of 
Maltravers  an  unamiable  aspect,  occasionally  irritated  one  who 
felt  he  had  incurred  to  him  an  obligation  of  honor  and  of  life,  never 
to  be  effaced  ;  it  made  the  sense  of  this  obligation  more  intolera- 
ble to  Legard  ;  it  made  him  more  desirous  to  acquit  himself  of 
the  charge.  But,  on  this  day,  there  was  so  much  cordiality  in 
the  greeting  of  Maltravers,  and  he  pressed  Legard  in  so  friendly 
a  manner  to  join  him  in  his  ride,  that  the  young  man's  heart  was 
softened,  and  they  rode  together,  conversing  familiarly  on  such 
topics  as  were  in  common  between  them.  At  last  the  conver- 
sation fell  on  Lord  and  Lady  Doltimore  ;  and  thence  Maltravers, 
whose  soul  was  full  of  one  thought,  turned  it  indirectly  towards 
Evelyn. 

"Did  you  ever  see  Lady  Vargrave?" 

"Never,"  replied  Legard,  looking  another  way ;  "but  Lady 
Doltimore  says  she  is  as  beautiful  as  Evelyn  herself,  if  that  be 
possible ;  and  still  so  young  in  form  and  countenance,  that  she 
looks  rather  like  her  sister  than  her  mother  !  " 

"  How  I  should  like  to  know  her  [ "  said  Maltravers,  with  sud- 
den energy. 

Legard  changed  the  subject.  He  spoke  of  the  Carnival — of 
balls — of  masquerades — of  operas — of  reigning  beauties  ! 

"Ah  !  "  said  Maltravers,  with  a  half  sigh,  "  yours  is  the  age 
for  those  dazzling  pleasures;  to  me  they  are  'the  twice-told 
tale.' " 

Maltravers  meant  it  not,  but  this  remark  chafed  Legard.  He 
thought  it  conveyed  a  sarcasm  on  the  childishness  of  his  own 
mind,  or  the  levity  of  his  pursuits  :  his  color  mounted,  as  he 
replied: 

"It  is  not,  I  fear,  the  slight  difference  of  years  between  us,  it 
is  the  difference  of  intellect  you  would  insinuate  ;  but  you  should 
remember  all  men  have  not  your  resources  ;  all  men  cannot  pre- 
tend to  genius ! " 

"My  dear  Legard,"  said  Maltravers  kindly,  "do  not  fancy 
that  I  could  have  designed  an  insinuation  half  so  presumptuous 
and  impertinent.  Believe  me,  I  envy  you,  sincerely  and  sadly, 
all  those  faculties  of  enjoyment  which  I  have  worn  away.  Oh, 
how  I  envy  you  !  for,  were  they  still  mine,  then — then,  indeed, 
I  might  hope  to  mould  myself  into  greater  congeniality  with  the 
beautiful  and  the  young ! " 

Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed  with  a  grave  smile; 


i6i  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERlfeg. 

"I  trust,  Legard,  that  you  will  be  wiser  than  I  have  been  ;  that 
you  will  gather  your  roses  while  it  is  yet  May  :  and  that  you  will 
not  live  to  thirty-six,  pining  for  happiness  and  a  home,  a  dis- 
appointed and  desolate  man ;  till,  when  your  ideal  is  at  last  found, 
you  shrink  back  appalled,  to  discover  that  you  have  lost  none  of 
the  tendencies  to  love,  but  many  of  the  graces  by  which  love  is 
to  be  alhired  !" 

There  was  so  much  serious  and  earnest  feeling  in  these  words, 
that  they  went  home  at  once  to  Legard's  sympathies.  He  felt 
irresistibly  impelled  to  learn  the  worst. 

"  Maltravers  ! "  said  he,  in  a  hurried  tone,  "  it  would  be  an  idle 
compliment  to  say  that  you  are  not  likely  to  love  in  vain  :  per 
haps  it  is  indelicate  in  me  to  apply  a  general  remark  ;  and  yet — ■ 
yet  I  cannot  but  fancy  that  I  have  discovered  your  secret,  and 
that  you  are  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  Miss  Cameron  !" 

"  Legard  !  "  said  Maltravers, — and  so  strong  was  his  fervent 
attachment  to  Evelyn,  that  it  swept  away  all  his  natural  cold- 
ness and  reserve — "I  tell  you  plainly  and  frankly,  that  in  my 
love  for  Evelyn  Cameron  lie  the  last  hopes  I  have  in  life.  I 
have  no  thought,  no  ambition,  no  sentiment  that  is  not  vowed 
to  her.  If  my  love  should  be  unreturned, — I  may  strive  to  en- 
dure the  blow — I  may  mix  with  the  world — I  may  seem  to  oc- 
cupy myself  in  the  aims  of  others — but  my  heart  will  be  broken! 
Let  us  talk  of  this  no  more — you  have  surprised  my  secret, 
though  it  must  have  betrayed  itself.  Learn  from  me  how  preter- 
naturally  strong — how  generally  fatal — is  love  deferred  to  that 
day  when — in  the  stern  growth  of  all  the  feelings — love  writes 
itself  on  granite  !  " 

Maltravers,  as  if  impatient  of  his  own  weakness,  put  spurs  to 
his  horse,  and  they  rode  on  rapidly  for  some  time  without  speak- 
ing. 

That  silence  was  employed  by  Legard  in  meditating  over  all 
he  had  heard  and  witnessed — in  recalling  all  that  he  owed  to 
Maltravers  ;  and  before  that  silence  was  broken  the  young  man 
nobly  resolved  not  even  to  attempt,  not  even  to  hope,  a  rivalry 
with  Maltravers ;  to  forego  all  the  expectations  he  had  so  fondly 
nursed — to  absent  himself  from  the  company  of  Evelyn — to 
requite  faithfully  and  firmly  that  act  of  generosity  to  which  he 
owed  the  preservation  of  his  life — the  redemption  of  his  honor! 

Agreeably  to  this  determination,  he  abstained  from  visiting 
those  haunts  in  which  Evelyn  shone  ;  and  if  accident  brought 
them  together,  his  manner  was  embarrassed  and  abrupt.  She 
wondered — at  last,  perhaps,  she  resented — it  may  be  that  she 
grieved ;  for  certain  it  is  that  Maltravers  was  right  in  thinking 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  263 

that  her  manner  had  lost  the  gayety  that  distinguished  it  at 
Merton  Rectory.  But  still  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Evelyn 
had  seen  enough  of  Legard,  and  whether  her  fancy  and  romance 
were  still  sufficiently  free  from  the  magical  influences  of  the 
genius  that  called  them  forth  in  the  eloquent  homage  of  Mal- 
travers,  to  trace,  herself,  to  any  causes  connected  with  her 
younger  lover  the  listless  melancholy  that  crept  over  her.  In 
very  young  women — new  alike  to  the  world  and  the  nokvvledge 
of  themselves — many  vague  and  undefined  feelings  herald  the 
dawn  of  Love  ; — shade  after  shade  and  light  upon  light  suc- 
ceeds, before  the  sun  breaks  forth,  and  the  earth  awakens  to  his 
presence. 

It  was  one  evening  that  Legard  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
led  into  a  party  at  the  ambassador's,  and  there,  as  he  stood  by 
the  door,  he  saw,  at  a  little  distance,  Maltravers  conversing 
with  Evelyn.  Again  he  writhed  beneath  the  tortures  of  his 
jealous  anguish  ;  and  there,  as  he  gazed  and  suffered,  he  resolved 
(as  Maltravers  had  done  before  him)  to  fly  from  the  place  that 
had  a  little  while  ago  seemed  to  him  Elysium  !  He  would  quit 
Paris,  he  would  travel — he  would  not  see  Evelyn  again  till  the 
irrevocable  barrier  was  passed,  and  she  was  the  wife  of  Mal- 
travers !  In  the  first  heat  of  this  determination,  he  turned 
towards  some  young  men  standing  near  him, — one  of  whom 
was  about  to  visit  Vienna.  He  gayly  proposed  to  join  him — a 
proposal  readily  accepted,  and  began  conversing  on  thejourney, 
the  city,  its  splendid  and  proud  society,  with  all  that  cruel 
exhilaration  which  the  forced  spirits  of  a  stricken  heart  can 
alone  display,  when  Evelyn  (whose  conference  with  Maltravers 
was  ended)  passed  close  by  him.  She  was  leaning  on  Lady 
Doltimore's  arm,  and  the  admiring  murmur  of  his  companions 
caused  Legard  to  turn  suddenly  round. 

"  You  are  not  dancing  to-night,  Colonel  Legard,"  said  Caroline, 
glancing  towards  Evelyn.  "  The  more  the  season  for  balls 
advances,  the  more  indolent  you  become." 

Legard  muttered  a  confused  reply,  one-half  of  which  seemed 
petulant,  while  the  other  half  was  inaudible. 

"  Not  so  indolent  as  you  suppose,"  said  his  friend  :  "Legard 
meditates  an  excursion  sufficient,  I  hope,  to  redeem  his  character 
in  your  eyes.  It  is  a  long  journey,  and,  what  is  worse,  a  very 
cold  journey,  to  Vienna." 

"  Vienna ! — do  you  think  of  going  to  Vienna  ?  "  cried  Caroline. 

"Yes,"  said  Legard.  "I  hate  Paris, — any  place  better  than 
this  odious  city  !  "  and  he  moved  away. 

Evelyn's  eyes  followed  him  sadly  and  gravely.     Sh?  remained 


264  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

by  Lady  Doltimore's  side,  abstracted  and  silent  for  sevefal 
minutes. 

Meanwhile  Caroline,  turning  to  Lord  Devonport  (the  friend 
who  had  proposed  the  Viennese  excursion),  said,  "  It  is  cruel 
in  you  to  go  to  Vienna, — it  is  doubly  cruel  to  rob  Lord  Dolti- 
more  of  his  best  friend,  and  Paris  of  its  best  waltzer." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  voluntary  offer  of  Legard's,  Lady  Doltimore, — 
believe  me,  I  have  used  no  persuasive  arts.  But  the  fact  is,  that 
we  have  been  talking  of  a  fair  widow,  the  beauty  of  Austria, 
and  as  proud  and  as  unassailable  as  Ehrenbreitstein  itself. 
Legard's  vanity  is  piqued, — and  so — as  a  professed  lady-killer — 
he  intends  to  see  what  can  be  effected  by  the  handsomest 
Englishman  of  his  time." 

Caroline  laughed, — and  new  claimants  on  her  notice  suc- 
ceeded to  Lord  Devonport.  It  was  not  till  the  ladies  were 
waiting  their  carriage  in  the  shawl-room,  that  Lady  Doltimore 
noticed  the  paleness  and  thoughtful  brow  of  Evelyn. 

"Are  you  fatigued  or  unwell,  dear?"  she  said. 

"No,"  answered  Evelyn,  forcing  a  smile, — and  at  that  moment 
they  were  joined  by  Maltravers,  with  the  intelligence  that  it 
would  be  some  minutes  before  the  carriage  could  draw  up. 
Caroline  amused  herself,  in  the  interval,  by  shrewd  criticisms 
on  the  dresses  and  characters  of  her  various  friends.  Caroline 
had  grown  an  amazing  prude  in  her  judgment  of  others ! 

"What  a  turban! — prudent  for  Mrs.  A to  wear — bright 

red  :  it  puts  out  her  face,  as  the  sun  puts  out  the  fire.  Mr. 
Maltravers,  do  observe  Lady  B with  that  zvry  young  gentle- 
man. After  all  her  experience  in  angling,  it  is  odd  that  she 
should  still  only  throw  in  for  small  fish.     Pray,  why  is  the 

marriage  between  Lady  C D and  Mr.  F broken  off  ? 

Is  it  true  that  he  is  so  much  in  debt? — and  is  so  very — very 
profligate?     They  say  she  is  heart-broken." 

"Really,  Lady  Doltimore,"  said   Maltravers,  smiling,  " I  am 

but  a  bad  scandalmonger.     But  poor  F is   not,  I  believe, 

much  worse  than  others.  How  do  we  know  whose  fault  it  is 
when  a  marriage  is  broken  off  ?  Lady  C D heart- 
broken ! — what  an  idea !  Nowadays  there  is  never  any  affection 
in  compacts  of  that  sort;  and  the  chain  that  binds  the  frivolous 
nature  is  but  a  gossamer  thread.  Fine  gentlemen  and  fine 
ladies  ! — their  loves  and  their  marriages 

"  '  May  flourish  and  may  fade — 
A  breath  may  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made. 

Never  believe  that  a  heart  long  accustomed  to  beat  only  in  good 
society  can  be  brokeii — it  is  rarely  even  touche4 1 " 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  265 

Evelyn  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  struck.  She  sighed, 
and  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  as  to  herself,  "It  is  true — how 
could  I  think  otherwise  ?" 

For  the  next  few  days  Evelyn  was  unwell,  and  did  not  quit 
her  room.  Maltravers  was  in  despair.  The  flowers — the 
books — the  music  he  sent — his  anxious  inquiries,  his  earnest 
and  respectful  notes — touched  with  that  ineffable  charm  which 
Heart  and  Intellect  breathe  into  the  most  trifling  coinage  from 
their  mint — all  affected  Evelyn  sensibly  ;  perhaps  she  con- 
trasted them  with  Legard's  indifference  and  apparent  caprice, — 
perhaps  in  that  contrast,  Maltravers  gained  more  than  by  all 
his  brilliant  qualities.  Meanwhile,  without  visit — without  mes- 
sage— without  farewell — unconscious,  it  is  true,  of  Evelyn's 
illness, — Legard  departed  for  Vienna. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  A  pleasing  land        »        *        * 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye. 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flashing  round  a  summer  sky. " — Thomson. 

Daily — hourly — increased  the  influence  of  Evelyn  over  Mal- 
travers. Oh,  what  a  dupe  is  a  man's  pride  I — what  a  fool  his 
wisdom  !  That  a  girl — a  mere  child, — one  who  scarce  knew 
her  own  heart — beautiful  as  it  was, — whose  deeper  feelings  still 
lay  coiled  up  in  their  sweet  buds, — that  she  should  thus  master 
this  proud,  wise  man  !  But  as  thou — our  universal  teacher — 
as  thou,  O  Shakespeare  !  haply  speaking  from  the  hints  of  thine 
own  experience — hast  declared — 

'*  None  are  so  truly  caught,  when  they  are  catch'd. 
As  wit  turned  fool  ; — ^foUy  in  wisdom  hatched. 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant." 

Still,  methinks  that,  in  that  surpassing  and  dangerously  in- 
dulged affection  which  levelled  thee,  Maltravers,  with  the  weak- 
est,— which  overturned  all  thy  fine  philosophy  of  Stoicism,  and 
made  thee  the  veriest  slave  of  the  "Rose-Garden," — still,  Mal- 
travers, thou  mightst,  at  least,  have  seen  that  thou  hadst  lost 
for  ever  all  right  to  pride,  all  privilege  to  disdain  the  herd  ! 
But  thou  wert  proud  of  thine  own  infirmity  !  And  far  sharper 
must  be  that  lesson  which  can  teach  thee  that  Pride — thine 
angel — is  ever  pre-doomed  to  fall ! 

What  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  passions  are  strongest  in 


266  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

youth  !  The  passions  are  not  stronger,  but  the  control  over 
them  is  weaker.  They  are  most  easily  excited — they  are  more 
violent  and  more  apparent, — but  they  have  less  energy,  less 
durability,  less  intense  and  concentrated  power,  than  in  ma- 
turer  life.  In  youth,  passion  succeeds  to  passion,  .^nd  one 
breaks  upon  the  other,  as  waves  upon  a  rock,  till  the  heart  frets 
itself  to  repose.  In  manhood,  the  great  deep  flows  on,  more 
calm  but  more  profound,  its  serenity  is  the  proof  of  the  might 
and  terror  of  its  course  were  the  wind  to  blow  and  the  storm 
to  rise. 

A  young  man's  ambition  is  but  vanity, — it  has  no  definite 
aim, — it  plays  with  a  thousand  toys.  As  with  one  passion,  so 
with  the  rest.  In  youth,  love  is  ever  on  the  wing,  but,  like  the 
birds  in  April,  it  hath  not  yet  built  its  nest.  With  so  long  a 
career  of  summer  and  hope  before  it,  the  disappointment  of  to- 
day is  succeeded  by  the  novelty  of  to-morrow,  and  the  sun  that 
advances  to  the  noon  but  dries  up  its  fervent  tears.  But  when 
we  have  arrived  at  that  epoch  of  life, — when,  if  the  light  fail  us, 
if  the  last  rose  wither,  we  feel  that  the  loss  cannot  be  retrieved, 
and  that  the  frost  and  the  darkness  are  at  hand.  Love  becomes 
to  us  a  treasure  that  we  watch  over  and  hoard  with  a  miser's 
care.  Our  youngest-born  affection  is  our  darling  and  our  idol, 
the  fondest  pledge  of  the  Past,  the  most  cherished  of  our  hopes 
for  the  Future.  A  certain  melancholy  that  mingles  with  our 
joy  at  the  possession  only  enhances  its  charm.  We  feel  our- 
selves so  dependent  on  it  for  all  that  is  yet  to  come.  Our  other 
barks — our  gay  galleys  of  pleasure — our  stately  argosies  of 
pride — have  been  swallowed  up  by  the  remorseless  wave.  On 
this  last  vessel  we  freight  our  all — to  its  frail  tenement  we  com- 
mit ourselves.  The  star  that  guides  it  is  our  guide,  and  in  the 
tempest  that  menaces  we  behold  our  own  doom  ! 

Still  Maltravers  shrank  from  the  confession  that  trembled  on 
his  lips — still  he  adhered  to  the  course  he  had  prescribed  to 
himself.  If  ever  (as  he  had  implied  in  his  letter  to  Cleveland) — 
if  ever  Evelyn  should  discover  they  were  not  suited  to  each 
other !  The  possibility  of  such  an  affliction  impressed  his 
judgment — the  dread  of  it  chilled  his  heart !  With  all  his  pride, 
there  was  a  certain  humility  in  Maltravers  that  was  perhaps 
one  cause  of  his  reserve.  He  knew  what  a  beautiful  possession 
is  youth — its  sanguine  hopes — its  elastic  spirit — its  inexhaustible 
resources  !  What  to  the  eyes  of  woman  were  the  acquisitions 
which  manhood  had  brought  him  ? — the  vast,  but  the  sad  ex- 
perience— the  arid  wisdom — the  philosophy  based  on  disap- 
pointojent  ?    He  might  be  loved  but  for  the  vain  glitter  of  name 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  267 

and  reputation, — and  love  might  vanish  as  custom  dimmed  the 
ilhision.  Men  of  strong  affections  are  jealous  of  their  own 
genius.  They  know  how  separate  a  thing  from  the  household 
character  genius  often  is, — they  fear  lest  they  should  be  loved 
for  a  quality,  not  for  themselves. 

Thus  communed  he  with  himself — thus,  as  the  path  had 
become  clear  to  his  hopes,  did  new  fears  arise ;  and  thus  did 
love  bring,  as  it  ever  does,  in  its  burning  wake 

"  The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt !  " 

Maltravers  then  confirmed  himself  in  the  resolution  he  had 
formed  :  he  would  cautiously  examine  Evelyn  and  himself — he 
would  weigh  in  the  balance  every  straw  that  the  wind  should 
turn  up — he  would  not  aspire  to  the  treasure,  unless  he  could 
feel  secure  that  the  coffer  could  preserve  the  gem.  This  was 
not  only  a  prudent,  it  was  a  just  and  a  generous  determination. 
It  was  one  which  we  all  ought  to  form  if  the  fervor  of  our  pas- 
sions will  permit  us.  We  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  years  to 
moments,  and  to  melt  the  pearl  that  has  no  price  in  a  single 
draught !  But  can  Maltravers  adhere  to  his  wise  precautions  ? 
The  truth  must  be  spoken — it  was  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his 
life  that  Maltravers  had  been  really  in  love. 

As  the  reader  will  remember,  he  had  not  been  in  love  with 
the  haughty  Florence  ;  admiration,  gratitude — the  affection  of 
the  head,  not  that  of  the  feelings,^had  been  the  links  that 
bound  him  to  the  enthusiastic  correspondent — revealed  in  the 
gifted  beauty, — and  the  gloomy  circumstances  connected  with 
her  ?ar]y  fate  had  left  deep  furrows  in  his  memory.  Time 
and  vicissitude  had  effaced  the  wounds,  and  the  Light  of  the 
Beautiful  dawned  once  more  in  the  face  of  Evelyn.  Valerie 
de  Ventadour  had  been  but  the  fancy  of  a  roving  breast.  Alice, 
the  sweet  Alice  ! — her,  indeed,  in  the  first  flower  of  youth,  he 
had  loved  with  a  boy's  romance.  He  had  loved  her  deeply, 
fondly — but  perhaps  he  had  never  been  in  love  with  her ;  he 
had  mourned  her  loss  for  years — insensibly  to  himself  her  loss 
had  altered  his  character  and  cast  a  melancholy  gloom  over  all 
the  colors  of  his  life.  But  she  whose  range  of  ideas  was  so 
confined — she  who  had  but  broke  into  knowledge,  as  the  chrys- 
alis into  the  butterfly — how  much  in  that  prodigal  and  gifted 
nature,  bounding  onwards  into  the  broad  plains  of  life,  must 
the  peasant  girl  have  failed  to  fill !  They  had  had  nothing  in 
common,  but  their  youth  and  their  love.  It  was  a  dream  that 
had  hovered  over  the  poet-boy  in  the  morning  twilight — a 
dream  he  had  often  wished  to  recall — a  dream  that  had  haunted 


468  ALlCfi  ;    ok,  tHE  MYSTERIES. 

him  in  the  noon-day, — but  had,  as  all  boyish  visions  ever  have 
done,  left  the  heart  unexhausted,  and  the  passions  unconsumed  ! 
Years — long  years — since  then  had  rolled  away,  and  yet  per- 
haps one  unconscious  attraction  that  drew  Maltravers  so  sud- 
denly towards  Evelyn  was  a  something  indistinct  and  undefin- 
able  that  reminded  him  of  Alice.  There  was  no  similarity  in 
their  features;  but  at  times  a  tone  in  Evelyn's  voice — a  "trick 
of  the  manner" — an  air — a  gesture — recalled  him,  over  the 
gulfs  of  Time,  to  Poetry,  and  Hope,  and  Alice. 

In  the  youth  of  each — the  absent  and  the  present  one — there 
was  resemblance  in  their  simplicity,  their  grace.  Perhaps, 
Alice,  of  the  two,  had  in  her  nature  more  real  depth,  more  ar- 
dor of  feeling,  more  sublimity  of  sentiment,  than  Evelyn.  But 
in  her  primitive  ignorance,  half  her  noblest  qualities  were  cm- 
bedded  and  unknown.  And  Evelyn — his  equal  in  rank — 
Evelyn,  well  cultivated — Evelyn,  so  long  courted — so  deeply 
studied — had  such  advantages  over  the  poor  peasant  girl !  Still 
the  poor  peasant  girl  often  seemed  to  smile  on  him  from  that 
fair  face.     And  in  Evelyn  he  half  loved  Alice  again  ! 

So  these  two  persons  now  met  daily  ;  their  intercourse  was 
even  more  familiar  than  before — their  several  minds  grew  hourly 
more  developed  and  transparent  to  each  other.  But  of  love, 
Maltravers  still  forbore  to  speak ;  they  were  friends, — no 
more  ;  such  friends  as  the  disparity  of  their  years  and  their  ex- 
perience might  warrant  them  to  be.  And  in  that  young  and 
innocent  nature — with  its  rectitude,  its  enthusiasm,  and  its  pious 
and  cheerful  tendencies — Maltravers  found  freshness  in  the 
desert,  as  the  camel-driver  lingering  at  the  well.  Insensibly  his 
heart  warmed  again  to  his  kind.  And  as  the  harp  of  David  to 
the  ear  of  Saul,  was  the  soft  voice  that  lulled  remembrance  and 
awakened  hope  in  the  lonely  man. 

Meanwhile,  what  was  the  effect  that  the  presence,  the  atten- 
tions, of  Maltravers  produced  on  Evelyn  !  Perhaps  it  was  of 
that  kind  which  most  flatters  us  and  most  deceives.  She  never 
dreamed  of  comparing  him  with  others.  To  her  thoughts  he 
stood  aloof  and  alone  from  all  his  kind.  It  may  seem  a  para- 
dox, but  it  might  be  that  she  admired  and  venerated  him  almost 
too  much  for  love.  Still  her  pleasure  in  his  society  was  so  evi- 
dent and  unequivocal,  her  deference  to  his  opinion  so  marked, — 
she  sympathized  in  so  many  of  his  objects — she  had  so  much 
blindness  or  forbearance  for  his  faults  (and  he  never  sought  to 
mask  them),  that  the  most  diffident  of  men  might  have  drawn 
from  so  many  symptoms  hopes  the  most  auspicious.  Since  the 
departure  of  Legard,  the  gayeties  of  Paris  lost  their  charm  for 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  269 

Evelyn,  and  more  than  ever  she  could  appreciate  the  society  of 
her  friend.  He  thus  gradually  lost  his  earlier  fears  of  her  form- 
ing too  keen  an  attachment  to  the  great  world  ;  and  as  noth- 
ing could  be  more  apparent  than  Evelyn's  indifference  to  the 
crowd  of  flatterers  and  suitors  that  hovered  round  her,  Maltra- 
vers  no  longer  dreaded  a  rival.  He  began  to  feel  assured  that 
they  had  both  gone  through  the  ordeal  ;  and  that  he  might  ask 
for  love  without  a  doubt  of  its  immutability  and  faith.  At  this 
period,  they  were  both  invited,  with  the  Doltimores,  to  spend  a 
few  days  at  the  villa  of  De  Montaigne,  near  St.  Cloud.  And 
there  it  was  that  Maltravers  determined  to  know  his  fate  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

*'  Chaos  of  Thought  and  Passion  all  confused." — Pope. 

It  is  to  the  contemplation  of  a  very  different  scene  that  the 
course  of  our  story  now  conducts  us. 

Between  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles  there  was  at  that  time — per- 
haps there  still  is — a  lone  and  melancholy  house,  appropriated 
to  the  insane.  Melancholy — not  from  its  site,  but  the  purpose 
to  which  it  is  devoted.  Placed  on  an  eminence,  the  windows 
of  the  mansion  command — beyond  the  gloomy  walls  that  gird 
the  garden  ground — one  of  those  enchanting  prospects  which 
win  for  France  her  title  to  La  Belle.  There,  the  glorious  Seine 
is  seen  in  the  distance,  broad  and  winding  through  the  varied 
plains,  and  beside  the  gleaming  villages  and  villas.  There,  too, 
beneath  the  clear  blue  sky  of  France,  the  forest-lands  of  Ver- 
sailles and  St.  Germain's  stretch  in  dark  luxuriance  around  and 
afar.  There  you  may  see  sleeping  on  the  verge  of  the  land- 
scape the  mighty  city — crowned  with  the  thousand  spires  from 
which,  proud  above  the  rest,  rises  the  eyrie  of  Napoleon's  eagle, 
the  pinnacle  of  Notre  Dame. 

Remote,  sequestered,  the  place  still  commands  the  survey  of 
the  turbulent  world  below.  And  Madness  gazes  upon  pros- 
pects that  might  well  charm  the  thoughtful  eyes  of  Imagination 
or  of  Wisdom  !  In  one  of  the  rooms  of  this  house  sateCastruc- 
cio  Cesarini.  The  apartment  vvas  furnished  even  with  ele- 
gance; a  variety  of  books  strewed  the  tables — nothing  for  com- 
fort or  for  solace,  that  the  care  and  providence  of  affection 
could  dictate,  was  omitted. — Cesarini  was  alone  :  leaning  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand,  he  gazed  on  the  beautiful  and  tranquil 
view  we  have  described.     "And  am  I  never  to  set  a  free  foot 


270  ALICE  ;    OR,  tME   MYSTERIES. 

on  that  soil  again  ?  "  he  muttered  indignantly,  as  he  broke  froni 
his  revery. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  keeper  of  the  sad  abode  (a  surgeon 
of  humanity  and  eminence)  entered,  followed  by  De  Montaigne. 
Cesarini  turned  round  and  scowled  upon  the  latter  ;  the  sur- 
geon, after  a  few  words  of  salutation,  withdrew  to  a  corner  of 
the  room,  and  appeared  absorbed  in  a  book.  De  Montaigne 
approached  his  brother-in-law — '*  I  have  brought  you  some 
poems  just  published  at  Milan,  my  dear  Castruccio — they  will 
please  you." 

"  Give  me  my  liberty  !  "  cried  Cesarini,  clenching  his  hands. 
"  Why  am  I  to  be  detained  here  ?  Why  are  my  nights  to  be 
broken  by  the  groans  of  maniacs,  and  my  days  devoured  in  a 
solitude  that  loathes  the  aspect  of  things  around  me  ?  Am  / 
mad  ? — You  know  I  am  not !  It  is  an  old  trick  to  say  that  poets 
are  mad — you  mistake  our  agonies  for  insanity.  See,  I  am 
calm — I  can  reason.:  give  me  any  test  of  sound  mind — no  mat- 
ter how  rigid — I  will  pass  it.  I  am  not  mad — I  swear  I  am 
not  !  " 

**  No,  my  dear  Castruccio,"  said  De  Montaigne,  soothingly, 
**  but  you  are  still  unwell — you  still  have  fever, — when  next  I 
see  you  perhaps  you  may  be  recovered  sufficiently  to  dismiss  the 
doctor  and  change  the  air.  Meanwhile,  is  there  anything  you 
would  have  added  or  altered  ?  " 

Cesarini  had  listened  to  this  speech  with  a  mocking  sarcasm 
on  his  lip,  but  an  expression  of  such  hopeless  wretchedness  in 
his  eyes,  as  they  alone  can  comprehend  who  have  witnessed 
madness  in  its  lucid  intervals.  He  sunk  down,  and  his  head 
drooped  gloomily  on  his  breast.  "  No,"  said  he  ;  "I  want 
nothing  but  free  air  or  death — no  matter  which." 

De  Montaigne  stayed  some  time  with  the  unhappy  man,  and 
sought  to  soothe  him  ;  but  it  was  in  vain.  Yet,  when  he  rose 
to  depart,  Cesarini  started  up,  and  fixing  on  him  his  large  wist- 
ful eyes,  exclaimed  :  "  Ah  !  do  not  leave  me  yet.  It  is  so 
dreadful  to  be  alone  with  the  dead  and  the  worse  than  dead  !" 

The  Frenchman  turned  aside  to  wipe  his  eyes,  and  stifle  the 
rising  at  his  heart ;  and  again  he  sate,  and  again  he  sought  to 
soothe.  At  length  Cesarini,  seemingly  more  calm,  gave  him 
leave  to  depart.  "  Go,"  said  he,  "  go — tell  Teresa  I  am  better — 
that  I  love  her  tenderly — that  I  shall  live  to  tell  her  children 
not  to  be  poets.  Stay;  you  asked  if  there  was  aught  I  wished 
changed — yes — this  room  ;  it  is  too  still :  I  hear  my  own  pulse 
beat  so  loudly  in  the  silence — it  is  horrible ! — there  is  a  room 
below,  by  the  window  of  which  there  is  a  tree,  and  the  wind 


ALICE  :     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  271 

rocks  its  boughs  to  and  fro,  and  it  sighs  and  groans  like  a  liv- 
ing thing  ;  it  will  be  pleasant  to  look  at  that  tree,  and  see  the 
birds  come  home  to  it, — yet  that  tree  is  wintry  and  blasted  too  ! 
— it  will  be  pleasant  to  hear  it  fret  and  chafe  in  the  stormy 
nights  :  it  will  be  a  friend  to  me,  that  old  tree !  let  me  have 
that  room.  Nay,  look  not  at  each  other — it  is  not  so  high  as 
this — but  the  window  is  barred — I  cannot  escape  !  "  And 
Cesarini  smiled. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  if  you  prefer  that  room  ;  but 
it  has  not  so  fine  a  view." 

"  1  hate  the  view  of  the  world  that  has  cast  me  off — when 
may  I  change  ?  " 

"  This  very  evening." 

"  Thank  you — it  will  be  a  great  revolution  in  my  life." 

And  Cesarini's  eyes  brightened,  and  he  looked  happy.  De 
Montaigne,  thoroughly  unmanned,  tore  himself  away. 

The  promise  was  kept,  and  Cesarini  was  transferred  that 
night  to  the  chamber  he  had  selected. 

As  soon  as  it  was  deep  night — the  last  visit  of  the  keeper 
paid — and,  save  now  and  then,  by  some  sharp  cry  in  the  more 
distant  quarter  of  the  house,  all  was  still,  Cesarini  rose  from  his 
bed  ;  a  partial  light  came  from  the  stars  tliat  streamed  through 
the  frosty  and  keen  air,  and  cast  a  sickly  gleam  through  the 
heavy  bars  of  the  casement.  It  was  then  that  Cesarini  drew 
from  under  his  pillow  a  long-cherished  and  carefully  concealed 
treasure.  Oh  !  with  what  rapture  had  he  first  possessed  him- 
self of  it ! — with  what  anxiety  had  it  been  watched  and  guarded! 
— how  many  cunning  stratagems  and  profound  inventions  had 
gone  towards  the  baffling  the  jealous  search  of  the  keeper  and 
his  myrmidons  !  The  abandoned  and  wandering  mother  never 
clasped  her  child  more  fondly  to  her  bosom,  nor  gazed  upon  its 
features  with  more  passionate  visions  for  the  future.  And  what 
had  so  enchanted  the  poor  prisoner — so  deluded  the  poor  ma- 
niac ? — A  large  nail  !  He  had  found  it  accidentally  in  the  gar- 
den— he  had  hoarded  it  for  weeks — it  had  inspired  him  with  the 
hope  of  liberty.  Often,  in  the  days  far  gone,  he  had  read  of 
the  wonders  that  had  been  effected — of  the  stones  removed  and 
the  bars  filed,  by  the  selfsame  kind  of  implement.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  most  celebrated  of  those  bold  unfortunates  who 
live  a  life  against  law  had  said,  "  Choose  my  prison,  and  give 
me  but  a  rusty  nail,  and  I  laugh  at  your  gaolers  and  your  walls!" 
He  crept  to  the  window — he  examined  his  relic  by  the  dim 
starlight — be  kissed  it  passionately,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes. 


272  ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

Ah  !  who  shall  determine  the  worth  of  things  ?  No  king  that 
night  so  prized  his  crown,  as  the  madman  prized  that  rusty  inch 
of  wire — the  proper  prey  of  the  rubbish-cart  and  dunghill. 
Little  didst  thou  think,  old  blacksmith,  when  thou  drewest  the 
dull  metal  from  the  fire,  of  what  precious  price  it  was  to  be- 
come ! 

Cesarini,  with  the  astuteness  of  his  malady,  had  long  marked 
out  this  chamber  for  the  scene  of  his  operations  ;  he  had  ob- 
served that  the  framework  in  which  the  bars  were  set  seemed 
old  and  worm-eaten — that  the  window  was  but  a  few  feet  from 
the  ground — that  the  noise  made  in  the  winter  nights  by  the 
sighing  branches  of  the  old  tree  without  would  deaden  the 
sound  of  the  lone  workman.  Now,  then,  his  hopes  were  to  be 
crowned.  Poor  Fool !  and  even  thou  hast  hope  still  !  All  that 
night  he  toiled  and  toiled,  and  sought  to  work  his  iron  into  a 
file  ;  now  he  tried  the  bars,  and  now  the  framework.  Alas  !  he 
had  not  learned  the  skill  in  such  tools,  possessed  by  his  re- 
nowned model  and  inspirer  ;  the  flesh  was  worn  from  his  fingers 
— the  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow — and  morning  surprised 
him,  advanced  not  a  hair's-breadth  in  his  labor. 

He  crept  back  to  bed,  and  again  hid  the  useless  implement, 
and  at  last  he  slept. 

And,  night  after  night,  the  same  task — the  same  results  !  But 
at  length,  one  day,  when  Cesarini  returned  from  his  moody  walk 
in  the  gardens  (//^^^///-^-grounds  they  were  called  by  the  owner), 
he  found  better  workmen  than  he  at  the  window  ;  they  were  re- 
pairing the  framework,  they  were  strengthening  the  bars — all 
hope  was  now  gone  !  The  unfortunate  said  nothing  ;  too  cun- 
ning to  show  his  despair — he  eyed  them  silently,  and  cursed 
them  ;  but  the  old  tree  was  left  still,  and  that  was  something — 
company  and  music. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  barbarous  counterplot,  Cesarini  was 
walking  in  the  gardens,  towards  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon 
(just  when,  in  the  short  days,  the  darkness  begins  to  steal  apace 
over  the  chill  and  westering  sun),  when  he  was  accosted  by  a 
fellow-captive,  who  had  often  before  sought  his  acquaintance ; 
for  they  try  to  have  friends — those  poor  people  !  Even  rve  do 
the  same  ;  though  we  say  we  are  not  mad  !  This  man  had  been 
a  warrior — had  served  with  Napoleon — had  received  honors 
and  ribands — might,  for  aught  we  know,  have  dreamed  of  being 
a  marshal !  But  the  demon  smote  him  in  the  hour  of  his  pride. 
It  was  his  disease  to  fancy  himself  a  Monarch.  He  believed, 
for  he  forgot  chronology,  that  he  was  at  once  the  Iron  Mask, 
and  the  true  sovereign  of  France  and  Navarre,  confined  in  state 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  27J 

by  the  usurpers  of  his  crown.  On  other  points  he  was  gener- 
ally sane  ;  a  tall,  strong  man,  with  fierce  features,  and  stern 
lines,  wherein  could  be  read  many  a  bloody  tale  of  violence  and 
wrong — of  lawless  passions — of  terrible  excesses — to  which 
madness  might  be  at  once  the  consummation  and  the  curse. 
Tiiis  man  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Cesarini ;  and  in  some  hours 
Cesarini  had  shunned  him  less  than  others  ;  for  they  could  alike 
rail  against  all  living  things.  The  lunatic  approached  Cesarini 
with  an  air  of  dignity  and  condescension  : 

*'  It  is  a  cold  night,  sir, — and  there  will  be  no  moon.  Has  it 
never  occurred  to  you  that  the  winter  is  the  season  for  escape  ?" 

Cesarini  started — the  ex-officer  continued  : 

"  Ay, — I  see  by  your  manner  that  you,  tOo,  chafe  at  our  igno- 
minious confinement.  I  think  that  together  we  might  brave 
the  worst.  You  probably  are  confined  on  some  state  offence. 
I  give  you  full  pardon,  if  you  assist  me.  For  myself,  I  have 
but  to  appear  in  my  capital — old  Louis  le  Grand  must  be  near 
his  last  hour." 

"  This  madman  my  best  companion  !  "  thought  Cesarini,  re- 
volted at  his  own  infirmity,  as  Gulliver  started  from  the  Yahoo. 
**  No  matter,  he  talks  of  escape." 

"  And  how  think  you,"  said  the  Italian,  aloud, — "  how  think 
you,  that  we  have  any  chance  of  deliverance  ?" 

"Hush — speak  lower,"  said  the  soldier.  "In  the  inner  gar- 
den, I  have  observed  for  the  last  two  days  that  a  gardener  is 
employed  in  nailing  some  fig-trees  and  vines  to  the  wall.  Be- 
tween that  garden  and  these  grounds  there  is  but  a  paling, 
which  we  can  easily  scale.  He  works  till  dusk  ;  at  the  latest 
hour  we  can,  let  us  climb  noiselessly  over  the  paling,  and  creep 
along  the  vegetable  beds  till  we  reach  the  man.  He  uses  a  lad- 
der for  his  purpose, — the  rest  is  clear, — we  must  fell  and  gag 
him — twist  his  neck  if  necessary — I  have  twisted  a  neck  before," 
quoth  the  maniac,  with  a  horrid  smile.  **  The  ladder  will 
help  us  over  the  wall — and  the  night  soon  grows  dark  at  this 
season." 

Cesarini  listened,  and  his  heart  beat  quick.  "  Will  it  be  too 
late  to  try  to-night  ? "  said  he  in  a  whisper. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  soldier,  who  retained  all  his  military 
acuteness.  **  But  are  you  prepared  ? — don't  you  require  time 
to  man  yourself  !  " 

"  No — no — I  have  had  time  enough  ! — I  am  ready." 

"  Well,  then, — hist ! — we  are  watched — one  of  the  gaolers  ! — 
Talk  easily — smile — laugh. — This  way."  They  passed  by  one 
of  the  watch  of  the  place,  and  just  as  they  were  in  his  hearing, 


274  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MVSTERIES, 

the  soldier  turned  to  Cesarini, — "  Sir,  will  you  favor  me  with 
your  snuff-box?  " 

"  I  have  none." 

"  None — what  a  pity  !  My  good  friend,"  and  he  turned  to 
the  scout,  "may  I  request  you  to  look  in  my  room  for  my  snuff- 
box ? — it  is  on  the  chimney-piece — it  will  not  take  you  a  minute." 

The  soldier  was  one  of  those  whose  insanity  was  deemed 
most  harmless,  and  his  relations,  who  were  rich  and  well-born, 
had  requested  every  indulgence  to  be  shown  to  him.  1  he 
watch  suspected  nothing,  and  repaired  to  the  house.  As  soon 
as  the  trees  hid  him, — "  Now,"  said  the  soldier,  "  stoop  almost 
on  all  fours,  and  run  quick." 

So  saying,  the  maniac  crouched  low,  and  glided  along  with  a 
rapidity  which  did  not  distance  Cesarini.  They  reached  the 
paling  that  separated  the  vegetable  garden  from  the  pleasure 
ground — the  soldier  vaulted  over  it  with  ease — Cesarini,  with 
more  difficulty,  followed, — they  crept  along  ;  the  herbs  and 
vegetable  beds,  with  their  long  bare  stalks,  concealed  their  move- 
ments ;  the  man  was  still  on  the  ladder.  "  La  bonne  Esperance  !  " 
said  the  soldier,  through  his  ground  teeth,  muttering  some  old 
watchword  of  the  wars,  and  (while  Cesarini,  below,  held  the 
ladder  steadfast)  he  rushed  up  the  steps — and,  with  a  sudden 
effort  of  his  muscular  arm,  hurled  the  gardener  to  the  ground. 
The  man,  surprised,  half-stunned,  and  wholly  terrified,  did  not 
attempt  to  wrestle  with  the  two  madmen, — he  uttered  loud  cries 
for  help  !  But  help  came  too  late  ;  these  strange  and  fearful 
comrades  had  already  scaled  the  wall,  had  dropped  on  the  other 
side,  and  were  fast  making  across  the  dusky  fields  to  the  neigh- 
boring forest. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Hopes  and  F«ars 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down  :  on  what  ? — a  fathomless  abyss  ?  " — YouNG. 

Midnight — and  intense  frost ! — there  they  were — houseless 
and  breadless — the  two  fugitives,  in  the  heart  of  that  beautiful 
forest  which  has  rung  to  the  horns  of  many  a  royal  chase.  The 
soldier,  whose  youth  had  been  inured  to  hardships,  and  to  the 
conquests  which  our  mother-wit  wrings  from  the  stepdame 
Nature — had  made  a  fire  by  the  friction  of  two  pieces  of  dry 
wood  ;  such  wood  was  hard  to  be  found,  for  the  snow  whitened 
the  Jeyel  ground,  and  lay  deep  in  the  hollows  ;  and  whep  it  was 


Alice;   or,  the  mysteries.  275 

discovered,  the  fuel  was  slow  to  burn  ;  however,  the  fire  blazed 
red  at  last.  On  a  little  mound,  shaded  by  a  semicircle  of  huge 
trees,  sate  the  outlaws  of  Human  Reason.  They  cowered  over 
the  blaze  opposite  to  each  other,  and  the  glare  crimsoned  their 
features.  And  each  in  his  heart  longed  to  rid  himself  of  his 
mad  neighbor  ;  and  each  felt  the  awe  of  solitude — the  dread 
of  sleep  beside  a  comrade  whose  soul  had  lost  God's  light ! 

"  Ho  !  "  said  the  warrior,  breaking  a  silence  that  had  been 
long  kept,  *'  this  is  cold  work  at  the  best,  and  hunger  pinches 
me  ;  I  almost  regret  the  prison." 

"  I  do  not  feel  the  cold,"  said  Cesarini,  "  and  I  do  not  care 
for  hunger  ;  I  am  revelling  only  in  the  sense  of  liberty  ! " 

"Try  and  sleep,"  quoth  the  soldier,  with  a  coaxing  and  sin- 
ister softness  of  voice  ;  *'  we  will  take  it  by  turns  to  watch." 

"  I  cannot  sleep — take  you  the  first  turn." 

"  Harkye,  sir  !  "  said  the  soldier  sullenly  ;  "  I  must  not  have 
my  commands  disputed  ;  now  we  are  free,  we  are  no  longer 
equal  ;  I  am  heir  to  the  crowns  of  France  and  Navarre.  Sleep, 
I  say  !  " 

"And  what  Prince  or  Potentate,  King  or  Kaisar,"  cried  Ces- 
arini, catching  the  quick  contagion  of  the  fit  that  had  seized 
his  comrade,  "can  dictate  to  the  Monarch  of  Earth  and  Air — • 
the  Elements  and  the  music-breathing  Stars  ! — I  am  Cesarini 
the  Bard  !  and  the  huntsman  Orion  halts  in  his  chase  above  to 
listen  to  my  lyre  !  Be  stilled,  rude  man  ! — thou  scarest  away  the 
angels,  whose  breath  even  now  was  rushing  through  my  hair  !  " 

"  It  is  too  horrible  !  "  cried  the  grim  man  of  blood,  shiver- 
ing; "my  enemies  are  relentless,  and  give  me  a  madman  for  a 
gaoler !  " 

"  Ha ! — a  madman  ! "  exclaimed  Cesarini,  springing  to  his 
feet,  and  glaring  at  the  soldier  with  eyes  that  caught  and 
rivalled  the  blaze  of  the  fire.  "And  who  are  you  ? — what  devil 
from  the  deep  hell,  that  art  leagued  with  my  persecutors 
against  me?  " 

With  the  instinct  of  his  old  calling  and  valor,  the  soldier 
also  rose  when  he  saw  the  movement  of  his  companion  ;  and 
his  fierce  features  worked  with  rage  and  fear. 

"  Avaunt  !  "  said  he,  waving  his  arm  ;  "  we  banish  thee  from 
our  presence  ! — This  is  our  palace — and  our  guards  are  at 
hand  !  "  pointing  to  the  still  and  skeleton  trees  that  grouped 
round  in  ghastly  bareness.     **  Begone  !  " 

At  that  moment  they  heard  at  a  distance  the  deep  barking  of 
a  dog,  and  each  cried  simultaneously — "They  are  after  me  ! — 
betrayed  !  "     The  soldier  sprung  at  the  throat  of  Cesarini;  but 


276  ALICE  ;     OR.  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  Italian,  at  the  same  instant,  caught  a  half-burnt  brand  from 
the  fire,  and  dashed  the  blazing  end  in  the  face  of  his  assailant. 
The  soldier  uttered  a  cry  of  pain,  and  recoiled  back,  blinded 
and  dismayed.  Cesarini,  whose  madness,  when  fairly  roused, 
was  of  the  most  deadly  nature,  again  raised  his  weapon,  and, 
probably  nothing  but  death  could  have  separated  the  foes;  but 
again  the  bay  of  the  dog  was  heard,  and  Cesarini,  answering  the 
sound  by  a  wild  yell,  threw  down  the  brand,  and  fled  away 
through  the  forest  with  inconceivable  swiftness.  He  hurried  on 
through  bush  and  dell — and  the  boughs  tore  his  garments  and 
mangled  his  flesh — but  stopped  not  his  progress  till  he  fell  at 
last  on  the  ground,  breathless  and  exhausted,  and  heard  from 
some  far-off  clock  the  second  hour  of  morning.  He  had  left 
the  forest — a  farm-house  stood  before  him  ;  and  the  whitened 
roofs  of  scattered  cottages  sloped  to  the  tranquil  sky.  The  wit- 
ness of  man — the  social  tranquil  sky  and  the  reasoning  man— • 
operated  like  a  charm  upon  the  senses  which  recent  excitement 
had  more  than  usually  disturbed.  The  unhappy  wretch  gazed 
at  the  peaceful  abodes,  and  sighed  heavily  ;  then,  rising  from 
the  earth,  he  crept  into  one  of  the  sheds  that  adjoined  the  farm- 
house, and  throwing  himself  on  some  straw,  slept  sound  and 
quietly  till  daylight,  and  the  voices  of  peasants  in  the  shed 
awakened  him. 

He  rose  refreshed,  calm,  and,  for  ordinary  purposes,  suffic- 
iently sane  to  prevent  suspicion  of  his  disease.  He  approached 
the  startled  peasants,  and,  representing  him.self  as  a  traveller 
who  had  lost  his  way  in  the  night  and  amidst  the  forest,  begged 
for  food  and  water.  Though  his  garments  were  torn,  they  were 
new  and  of  good  fashion;  his  voice  was  mild;  his  whole  appear- 
ance and  address  those  of  one  of  some  station — and  the  French 
peasant  is  a  hospitable  fellow.  Cesarini  refreshed  and  rested 
himself  an  hour  or  two  at  the  farm,  and  then  resumed  his  wander- 
ings; he  offered  no  money,  for  the  rules  of  the  asylum  forbade 
money  to  its  inmates;  he  had  none  with  him — but  none  was 
expected  from  him;  and  they  bade  him  farewell  as  kindly  as  if 
he  had  bought  their  blessings.  He  then  began  to  consider 
where  he  was  to  take  refuge,  and  how  provide  for  himself;  the 
feeling  of  liberty  braced,  and  for  a  time  restored,  his  intellect. 

Fortunately,  he  had  on  his  person,  besides  some  rings  of  tri- 
fling cost,  a  watch  of  no  inconsiderable  value,  the  sale  of  which 
might  support  him,  in  such  obscure  and  humble  quarter  as  he 
could  alone  venture  to  inhabit,  for  several  weeks — perhaps 
months.  This  thought  made  him  cheerful  and  elated;  he  walked 
lustily  on,  shunning  the  highroad — the  day  was  clear — the  sun 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  277 

bright — the  air  full  of  racy  health.  Oh,  what  soft  raptures 
swelled  the  heart  of  the  wanderer,  as  he  gazed  around  him  ! 
The  Poet  and  the  Freeman  alike  stirred  within  his  shattered 
heart !  He  paused  to  contemplate  the  berries  of  the  icy  trees — 
to  listen  to  the  sharp  glee  of  the  blackbird — and  once — when 
he  found  beneath  a  hedge  a  cold,  scentless  group  of  hardy  vio- 
lets— he  laughed  aloud  in  his  joy.  In  that  laughter  there  was 
no  madness — no  danger;  but  when,  as  he  journeyed  on,  he 
passed  through  a  little  hamlet,  and  saw  the  children  at  play  upon 
the  ground,  and  heard  from  the  open  door  of  a  cabin  the  sound 
of  rustic  music,  then,  indeed,  he  paused  abruptly ;  the  past 
gathered  over  him:  he  knew  that  which  he  had  been — that  which 
he  was  now! — an  awful  memory  ! — a  dread  revelation!  And, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  wept  aloud.  In  those  tears 
were  the  peril  and  the  method  of  madness.  He  woke  from 
them  to  think  of  his  youth — his  hopes — of  Florence — of  Re- 
venge ! — Lumley,  Lord  Vargrave  !  better,  from  that  hour,  to 
encounter  the  tiger  in  his  lair,  than  find  thyself  alone  with  that 
miserable  man  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  It  seem'd  the  laurel  chaste  and  stubborn  oak, 
And  all  the  gentle  trees  on  earth  that  grew  ; 
It  seem'd  the  land,  the  sea,  and  heaven  above, 
All  breathed  out  fancy  sweet,  and  sigh'd  out  love." 

— Fairfax's  Tasso. 

At  De  Montaigne's  villa,  Evelyn,  for  the  first  time,  gathered 
from  the  looks,  the  manners  of  Maltravers,  that  she  was  be- 
loved. It  was  no  longer  possible  to  mistake  the  evidences  of 
affection.  Formerly,  Maltravers  had  availed  himself  of  his  ad- 
vantage of  years  and  experience,  and  would  warn,  admonish, 
dispute,  even  reprove  ;  formerly,  there  had  been  so  much  of 
seeming  caprice,  of  cold  distance,  of  sudden  and  wayward  haught- 
iness, in  his  bearing;  but  now,  the  whole  man  was  changed — 
the  Mentor  had  vanished  in  the  Lover, — he  held  his  being  on 
her  breath.  Her  lightest  pleasure  seemed  to  have  grown  his 
law — no  coldness  ever  alternated  the  deep  devotion  of  his  man- 
ner ;  an  anxious,  a  timid,  a  watchful  softness  replaced  all  his 
stately  self-possession.  Evelyn  saw  that  she  was  loved  ;  and 
she  then  looked  into  her  own  heart. 

I  have  said  before  that  Evelyn  was  gentle,  even  \.o  yielding- 
ness;  that  her  susceptibility  made  her  shrink  from  the  thought 


ayS  ALICE  ;  or,  the  mysteries. 

of  pain  to  another ;  and  so  thoroughly  did  she  revere  Mal- 
travers — so  grateful  did  she  feel  for  a  love  that  could  not  but 
flatter  pride,  and  raise  her  in  her  self-esteem — that  she  felt  it  im- 
possible that  she  could  reject  his  suit.  "  Then,  do  I  love  him  as  I 
dreamt  I  could  love?"  she  asked  herself;  and  her  heart  gave 
no  intelligible  reply.  "  Yes  ! — it  must  be  so  ;  in  his  presence 
I  feel  a  tranquil  and  eloquent  charm  ;  his  praise  delights  me  ; 
his  esteem  is  my  most  high  ambition, — and  yet — and  yet — "  she 
sighed,  and  thought  of  Legard,  ''hutAe  loved  me  not!"  and 
she  turned  restlessly  from  that  image.  "  He  thinks  but  of  the 
world — of  pleasure  ;  Maltravers  is  right — the  spoiled  children 
of  society  cannot  love  :  why  should  I  think  of  him  ?" 

There  were  no  guests  at  the  villa,  except  Maltravers,  Evelyn, 
and  Lord  and  Lady  Doltimore.  Evelyn  was  much  captivated 
by  the  graceful  vivacity  of  Teresa,  though  that  vivacity  was  not 
what  it  had  been  before  her  brother's  affliction  ;  their  children, 
some  of  whom  were  grown  up,  constituted  an  amiable  and  in- 
telligent family  ;  and  De  Montaigne  himself  was  agreeable  and 
winning,  despite  his  sober  manners,  and  his  love  of  philosophi- 
cal dispute.  Evelyn  often  listened  thoughtfully  to  Teresa's 
praises  of  her  husband — to  her  account  of  the  happiness  she  had 
known  in  a  marriage  where  there  had  been  so  great  a  disparity 
of  years;  Evelyn  began  to  question  the  truth  of  her  early  vis- 
ions of  romance. 

Caroline  saw  the  unequivocal  attachment  of  Maltravers  with 
the  same  indifference  with  which  she  had  anticipated  the  suit 
of  Legard.  It  was  the  same  to  her  what  hand  delivered  Evelyn 
and  herself  from  the  designs  ofVargrave, — but  Vargrave  occu- 
pied nearly  all  her  thoughts.  The  newspapers  had  reported  him 
as  seriously  ill — at  one  time  in  great  danger.  He  was  recover- 
ing, but  still  unable  to  quit  his  room.  He  had  written  to  her 
once,  lamenting  his  ill-fortune — trusting  soon  to  be  at  Paris ; 
and  touching,  with  evident  pleasure,  upon  Legard's  departure 
for  Vienna,  which  he  had  seen  in  the  Morning  Post.  But  he 
was  afar — alone — ill — untended:  and  though  Caroline's  guilty 
love  had  been  much  abated  by  Vargrave's  icy  selfishness — by 
absence  and  remorse — still  she  had  the  heart  of  a  woman, — 
and  Vargrave  was  the  only  one  that  had  ever  touched  it.  She 
felt  for  him,  and  grieved  in  silence  ;  she  did  not  dare  to  utter 
sympathy  aloud,  for  Doltimore  had  already  given  evidence  of 
a  suspicious  and  jealous  temper. 

Evelyn  was  also  deeply  affected  by  the  account  of  her  guar- 
dian's illness.  As  I  before  said,  the  moment  he  ceased  to  be 
her  lover,  her  childish  affection  for  him  returned.     She  even 


ALlCfi  ;    OR,  tHE    MYSTERIES.  27^ 

permitted  herself  to  write  to  him  ;  and  a  tone  of  melancholy  de- 
pression which  artfully  pervaded  his  reply  struck  her  with  some- 
thing like  remorse.  He  told  her  in  that  letter,  that  he  had  much 
to  say  to  her  relative  to  an  investment,  in  conformity  with  her 
stepfather's  wishes,  and  he  should  hasten  to  Paris,  even  before 
the  doctor  would  sanction  his  removal.  Vargrave  forbore  to 
mention  what  the  meditated  investment  was.  The  last  public 
accounts  of  the  Minister  had,  however,  been  so  favorable,  that 
his  arrival  might  be  almost  daily  expected  ;  and  both  Caroline 
and  Evelyn  felt  relieved. 

To  De  Montaigne,  Maltravers  confided  his  attachment,  and 
both  the  Frenchman  and  Teresa  sanctioned  and  encouraged  it. 
Evelyn  enchanted  them ;  and  they  had  passed  that  age  when 
they  could  have  imagined  it  possible  that  the  man  they  had 
known  almost  as  a  boy  was  separated  by  years  from  the  lively 
feelings  and  extreme  youth  of  Evelyn.  They  could  not  believe 
that  the  sentiments  he  had  inspired  were  colder  than  those  that 
animated  himself. 

One  day,  Maltravers  had  been  absent  for  some  hours  on  his 
solitary  rambles,  and  De  Montaigne  had  not  yet  returned  from 
Paris — which  he  visited  almost  daily.  It  was  so  late  in  the  noon 
as  almost  to  border  on  evening,  when  Maltravers,  on  his  return, 
entered  the  grounds  by  a  gate  that  separated  them  from  an  ex- 
tensive  wood.  He  saw  Evelyn,  Teresa,  and  two  of  her  children, 
walking  on  a  kind  of  terrace  immediately  before  him.  He 
joined  them  ;  and  somehow  or  other,  it  soon  chanced  that  Te- 
resa and  himself  loitered  behind  the  rest — a  little  distance  out 
of  hearing.  "Ah,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the  former,  "we  miss 
the  soft  skies  of  Italy  and  the  beautiful  hues  of  Como." 

"  And,  for  my  part,  I  miss  the  youth  that  gave  '  glory  to  the 
grass  and  splendor  to  the  flowers.' " 

"  Nay ;  we  are  happier  now,  believe  me, — or  at  least  I  should 
be,  if — but  I  must  not  think  of  my  poor  brother.  Ah  !  if  his 
guilt  deprived  you  of  one  who  was  worthy  of  you,  it  would  be 
some  comfort  to  his  sister  to  think  at  last  that  the  loss  was  re- 
paired.    And  you  still  have  scruples?" 

"  Who  that  loves  truly  has  not  ?  How  young — how  lovely — 
how  worthy  of  lighter  hearts  and  fairer  forms  than  mine  !  Give 
me  back  the  years  that  have  passed  since  we  last  met  at  Como, 
and  I  might  hope  ! " 

"  And  this  to  me,  who  have  enjoyed  such  happiness  with  one 
older,  when  we  married,  by  ten  years  than  you  are  now  ! " 

"  But  you,  Teresa,  were  born  to  see  life  through  the  Claude 
glass." 


i8o  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"Ah,  you  provoke  me  with  these  refinements — you  turn  from 
a  happiness  you  have  but  to  demand." 

"  Do  not — do  not  raise  my  hopes  too  high,"  cried  Maltravers, 
with  great  emotion  ;  "  I  have  been  schooling  myself  all  day. 
But  if  I  am  deceived  ! " 

"Trust  me,  you  are  not.  See,  even  now  she  turns  round  to 
look  for  you — she  loves  you — loves  you  as  you  deserve.  This 
difference  of  years  that  you  so  lament  does  but  deepen  and  ele- 
vate her  attachment ! " 

Teresa  turned  to  Maltravers — surprised  at  his  silence.  How 
joyous  sate  his  heart  upon  his  looks — no  gloom  on  his  brow — no 
doubt  in  his  sparkling  eyes  !  He  was  mortal,  and  he  yielded  to 
the  delight  of  believing  himself  beloved.  He  pressed  Teresa's 
hand  in  silence,  and  quitting  her  abruptly,  gained  the  side  of 
Evelyn.  Madame  de  Montaigne  comprehended  all  that  passed 
within  him  ;  and  as  she  followed,  she  soon  contrived  to  detach 
her  children,  and  returned  with  them  to  the  house  on  a  whis- 
pered pretence  of  seeing  if  their  father  had  yet  arrived.  Evelyn 
and  Maltravers  continued  to  walk  on — not  aware,  at  first,  that 
the  rest  of  the  party  were  not  close  behind. 

The  sun  had  set ;  and  they  were  in  a  part  of  the  grounds 
which,  by  way  of  a  contrast  to  the  rest,  was  laid  out  in  the  Eng- 
lish fashion  ;  the  walk  wound,  serpent-like,  among  a  profu- 
sion of  evergreens  irregularly  planted  ;  the  scene  was  shut 
in  and  bounded,  except  where  at  a  distance,  through  an  open- 
ing of  the  trees,  you  caught  the  spire  of  a  distant  church,  over 
which  glimmered,  faint  and  fair,  the  smile  of  the  evening 
star. 

"This  reminds  me  of  home,"  said  Evelyn  gently. 

"  And  hereafter  it  will  remind  me  of  you,"  said  Maltravers,  in 
whispered  accents.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  as  he  spoke. 
Never  had  his  look  been  so  true  to  his  heart — never  had  his 
voice  so  undisguisedly  expressed  the  profound  and  passionate 
senViment  which  had  sprung  up  within  him — to  constitute,  as  he 
then  believed,  the  latest  bliss,  or  the  crowning  misery  of  his  life! 
At  that  moment,  it  was  a  sort  of  instinct  that  told  him  they  were 
alone;  for  who  has  not  felt — in  those  few  and  memorable  hours 
of  life  when  love  long  suppressed  overflows  the  fountain,  and 
seems  to  pervade  the  whole  frame  and  the  whole  spirit — that 
there  is  a  magic  around  and  within  us  that  hath  a  keener  intelli- 
gence than  intellect  itself  ?  Alone  at  such  an  hour  with  the  one 
we  love,  the  whole  world  beside  seems  to  vanish,  and  our  feet 
to  have  entered  the  soil,  and  our  lips  to  have  caught  the  air,  of 
Fairy  Land. 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  281 

They  were  alone. — And  why  did  Evelyn  tremble? — Why  did 
she  feel  that  a  crisis  of  existence  was  at  hand  ? 

"Miss  Cameron — Evelyn — "  said  Maltravers,  after  they  had 
walked  some  moments  in  silence, — "hear  me — and  let  your  rea- 
son as  well  as  your  heart  reply.  From  the  first  moment  we  met, 
you  became  dear  to  me.  Yes,  even  when  a  child,  your  sweetness 
and  your  fortitude  foretold  so  well  what  you  would  be  in  wom- 
anliood :  even  then  you  left  upon  my  memory  a  delightful  and 
mysterious  shadow — too  prophetic  of  the  light  that  now  hallows 
and  wraps  your  image !  We  met  again — and  the  attraction  that 
had  drawn  me  towards  you  years  before  was  suddenly  renewed. — 
1  love  you,  Evelyn  ! — I  love  you  better  than  all  words  can  tell! — 
Your  future  fate,  your  welfare,  your  happiness,  contain  and  em- 
body all  the  hopes  left  to  me  in  life  !  But  our  years  are  different, 
Evelyn.  I  have  known  sorrows — and  the  disappointments  and 
the  experience  that  have  severed  me  from  the  common  world 
have  robbed  me  of  more  than  time  itself  hath  done.  They  have 
robbed  me  of  that  zest  for  the  ordinary  pleasures  of  our  race — 
which  may  it  be  yours,  sweet  Evelyn,  ever  to  retain.  To  me, 
the  time  foretold  by  the  Preacher  as  the  lot  of  age  has  already 
arrived — when  the  sun  and  the  moon  are  darkened,  and  when, 
save  in  you  and  through  you,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  anything. 
Judge,  if  such  a  being  you  can  love !  Judge,  if  my  very  con- 
fession does  not  revolt  and  chill — if  it  does  not  present  to  you  a 
gloomy  and  cheerless  future — were  it  possible  that  you  could 
unite  your  lot  to  mine  !  Answer  not  from  friendship  or  from 
pity  ;  the  love  I  feel  for  you  can  have  a  reply  from  love  alone, 
and  from  that  reasoning  which  love,  in  its  enduring  power — in 
its  healthful  confidence — in  its  prophetic  foresight — alone  sup- 
plies !  I  can  resign  you  without  a  murmur — but  I  could  not 
live  with  you  and  even  fancy  that  you  had  one  care  I  could  not 
soothe,  though  you  might  have  happiness  I  could  not  share. 
And  fate  does  not  present  to  me  any  vision  so  dark  and  terri- 
ble— no,  not  your  loss  itself — no,  not  your  indifference — no,  not 
your  aversion, — as  your  discovery — after  time  should  make  re- 
gret in  vain,  that  you  had  mistaken  fancy  or  friendship  for  af- 
fection— a  sentiment  for  love.  Evelyn,  I  have  confided  to  you 
all — all  this  wild  heart,  now  and  evermore  your  own.  My  des- 
tiny is  with  you  !  " 

Evelyn  was  silent — he  took  her  hand — and  her  tears  fell 
warm  and  fast  upon  it.  Alarmed  and  anxious,  he  drew  her 
towards  him  and  gazed  upon  her  face, 

"You  fear  to  wound  me,"  he  said,  with  pale  lips  and  trem- 
bling voice.     "  Speak  on, — I  can  bear  all." 


tB2  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"  No — no,"  said  Evelyn,  falteringly  ;  "  I  have  no  fear,  but  not 
to  deserve  you." 

"You  love  me,  then, — you  love  me!"  cried  Maltravers 
wildly,  and  clasping  her  to  his  heart. 

The  moon  rose  at  that  instant,  and  the  wintry  sward  and  the 
dark  trees  were  bathed  in  the  sudden  light.  The  time — the 
light — so  exquisite  to  all — even  in  loneliness  and  in  sorrow — 
how  divine  in  such  companionship  ! — in  such  overflowing  and 
ineffable  sense  of  bliss !  There  and  then  for  the  first  time  did 
Maltravers  press  upon  that  modest  and  blushing  cheek  the  kiss 
of  Love — of  Hope — the  seal  of  a  union  he  fondly  hoped  the 
grave  itself  could  not  dissolve ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

'  Queen.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 
Hamlet.     On  him — on  him, — look  you  how  pale  he  glares  !  " — Hamlet. 

Perhaps  to  Maltravers  those  few  minutes  which  ensued,  as 
they  walked  slowly  on,  compensated  for  all  the  troubles  and 
cares  of  years  ;  for  natures  like  his  feel  joy  even  yet  more 
intensely  than  sorrow.  It  might  be  that  the  transport — tlie 
delirium  of  passionate  and  grateful  thoughts  that  he  poured 
forth — when  at  last  he  could  summon  words — expressed  feelings 
the  young  Evelyn  could  not  comprehend,  and  which  less  de- 
lighted than  terrified  her  with  the  new  responsibility  she  had  in- 
curred. But  love  so  honest — so  generous — so  intense — dazzled 
and  bewildered,  and  carried  her  whole  soul  away.  Certainly  at 
that  hour  she  felt  no  regret — no  thought  but  that  one  in  whom 
she  had  so  long  recognized  something  nobler  than  is  found  in 
the  common  world — was  thus  happy  and  thus  made  happy  by 
a  word — a  look  from  her !  Such  a  thought  is  woman's  dearest 
triumph, — and  one  so  thoroughly  unselfish — so  yielding  and  so 
soft — could  not  be  insensible  to  the  rapture  she  had  caused. 

"And  oh  !"  said  Maltravers,  as  he  clasped  again  and  again 
the  hand  that  he  believed  he  had  won  forever,  "now,  at  length, 
have  I  learned  how  beautiful  is  life  !  For  this — for  this  I  have 
been  reserved  !  Heaven  is  merciful  to  me — and  the  waking 
world  is  brighter  than  all  my  dreams ! " 

He  ceased  abruptly.  At  that  instant  they  were  once  more 
on  the  terrace  where  he  had  first  joined  Teresa — facing  the 
wood — which  was  divided  by  a  slight  and  low  palisade  from 
the  spot  where  they  stood.     He  ceased  abruptly,  for  his  eyes 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  283 

encountered  a  terrible  and  ominous  opposition — a  form  con- 
nected with  dreary  associations  of  fate  and  woe.  The  figure  had 
raised  itself  upon  a  pib  of  firewood  on  the  other  side  the  fence, 
and  hence  it  seemed  almost  gigantic  in  its  stature.  It  gazed 
upon  the  pair. with  eyes  that  burned  with  a  preternatural  blaze, 
and  a  voice  which  Maltravers  too  well  remembered  shrieked 
out, — "  Love — love  !  What !  tJiou  love  again  ?  Where  is  the 
Dead?     Ha! — ha  !     Where  is  the  dead?" 

Evelyn,  startled  by  the  words,  looked  up,  and  clung  in  speech- 
less terror  to  Maltravers.     He  remained  rooted  to  the  spot. 

"  Unhappy  man,"  said  he  at  length,  and  soothingly, "  how  came 
you  hither?     Fly  not,  you  are  with  friends." 

"  Friends  !  "  said  the  maniac,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "  I  know 
thee,  Ernest  Maltravers, — I  know  thee  :  but  it  is  not  thou  who 
has  locked  me  up  in  darkness  and  in  hell,  side  by  side  with  the 
mocking  fiend  !  Friends  ! — ah,  but  no  friends  shall  catch  me 
now  !  I  am  free — I  am  free  ! — air  and  wave  are  not  more  free  !  " 
and  the  madman  laughed  with  horrible  glee.  "She  is  fair — 
fair,"  he  said,  abruptly  checking  himself,  and  with  a  changed 
voice,  "but  not  so  fair  as  the  Dead.  Faithless  that  thou  art — 
and  yet  she  loved  thee!  Woe  to  thee! — woe — Maltravers,  the 
perfidious  !     Woe  to  thee — and  remorse — and  shame  !  " 

"Fear  not,  Evelyn, — fear  not,"  whispered  Maltravers  gently, 
and  placing  her  behind  him;  "support  your  courage — nothing 
shall  harm  you." 

Evelyn,  though  very  pale  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
retained  her  senses.  Maltravers  advanced  towards  the  madman. 
Ijut  no  sooner  did  the  quick  eye  of  the  last  perceive  the  move- 
ment, than,  with  the  fear  which  belongs  to  that  dread  disease — 
the  fear  of  losing  liberty — he  turned,  and,  with  a  loud  cry,  fled 
into  the  wood.  Maltravers  leaped  over  the  fence,  and  pursued 
him  some  way  in  vain.  The  thick  copses  of  the  wood  snatched 
every  trace  of  the  fugitive  from  his  eye. 

Breathless  and  exhausted,  Maltravers  returned  to  the  spot 
where  he  had  left  Evelyn.  As  he  reached  it,  he  saw  Teresa  and 
her  husband  approaching  towards  him,  and  Teresa's  merry  laugh 
sounded  clear  and  musical  in  the  racy  air.  The  sound  appalled 
him — he  hastened  his  steps  to  Evelyn. 

"  Say  nothing  of  what  we  have  seen  to  Madame  de  Montaigne, 
I  beseech  you,"  said  he;  "I  will  explain  why  hereafter." 

Evelyn,  too  overcome  to  speak,  nodded  her  acquiescence. 
They  joined  the  De  Montaignes,  and  Maltravers  took  the 
Frenchman  aside. 

But  befor?  he  Qould  address  him,  De  Montaigne  said; 


284  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

**  Hush  !  do  not  alarm  my  wife — she  knows  nothing — ^but  I 
have  just  heard,  at  Paris,  that — that  he  has  escaped — you  know 
whom  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  do — he  is  at  hand — send  in  search  of  him  ! — I  have  seen 
him  !   once  more  I  have  seen  Castruccio  Cesarini ! " 


BOOK    IX. 


Alal-  Ta&  r]6r]  6ia(pav7i. — Soph.  CEdip.   Tyran.  754. 
Woe,  woe  :  all  things  are  clear. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  The  privilege  that  statesmen  ever  claim. 
Who  private  interest  never  yet  pursued, 
But  still  pretended  'twas  for  others'  good. 
*  »  *  * 

From  hence  on  every  humorous  wind  that  veer'd 
With  shifted  sails  a  several  course  you  steer'd." 

— Absalom  and  Achitophel,  Part  II. 

Lord  Vargrave  had  for  more  than  a  fortnight  remained  at 

*he  inn  at  M ,  too  ill  to  be  removed  with  safety  in  a  season 

M  severe.  Even  when  at  last,  by  ea^sv  stages,  he  reached  Lon- 
don, he  was  subjected  to  a  relapse  ;  _.d  his  recovery  was  slow 
and  gradual.  Hitherto  unused  to  sickness,  he  bore  his  confine- 
ment with  extreme  impatience  ;  and,  against  the  commands 
of  his  physician,  insisted  on  continuing  to  transact  his  official 
business,  and  consult  with  his  political  friends,  in  his  sick  room; 
for  Lumley  knew  well  that  it  is  most  pernicious  to  public  men  to 
be  considered  failing  in  health  :  turkeys  are  not  more  unfeeling 
to  a  sick  brother,  than  politicians  to  an  ailing  statesman  :  they 
give  out  that  his  head  is  touched,  and  see  paralysis  and  epilepsy 
in  every  speech  and  every  despatch.  The  time,  too,  nearly  ripe 
for  his  great  schemes,  made  it  doubly  necessary  that  he  should 
exert  himself,  and  prevent  being  shelved  with  a  plausible  excuse 
of  tender  compassion  for  his  infirmities.  As  soon,  therefore,  as 
he  learned  that  Legard  had  left  Paris,  he  thought  himself  safe 
for  a  while  in  that  quarter,  and  surrendered  his  thoughts  wholly 
to  his  ambitious  projects.     Perhaps,  too,  with  the  susceptible 

vanity  of  a  middle-aged  man  who  bad  his  l^mms  fortunes,  Luro- 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  285 

Jey  deemed,  with  Rousseau,  that  a  lover  pale  and  haggard-^ 
just  raised  from  the  bed  of  suffering — is  more  interesting  to 
friendship  than  attractive  to  love.  He  and  Rousseau  were,  I 
believe,  both  mistaken  ;  but  that  is  a  matter  of  opinion  :  they 
both  thought  very  coarsely  of  women, — one,  from  having  no 
sentiment,  and  the  other,  from  having  a  sentiment  that  was  but 
a  disease.  At  length,  just  as  Lumley  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  quit  his  house — to  appear  at  his  office,  and  declare  that  his 
illness  had  wonderfully  improved  his  constitution, — intelligence 
from  Paris,  the  more  startling  from  being  wholly  unexpected, 
reached  him.  From  Caroline  he  learned  that  Maltravers  had 
proposed  to  Evelyn,  and  had  been  accepted.  From  Maltravers 
himself  he  heard  the  confirmation  of  the  news.  The  last  letter 
was  short,  but  kind  and  manly.  He  addressed  Lord  Vargrave 
as  Evelyn's  guardian  ;  slightly  alluded  to  the  scruples  he  had 
entertained,  till  Lord  Vargrave's  suit  was  broken  off  ;  and,  feel- 
ing the  subject  too  delicate  for  a  letter,  expressed  a  desire  to 
confer  with  Lumley  respecting  Evelyn's  wishes  as  to  certain 
arrangements  in  her  property. 

And  for  this  it  was  that  Lumley  had  toiled  !  for  this  had  he 
visited  Lisle  Court !  and  for  this  had  he  been  stricken  down 
to  the  bed  of  pain  ?  Was  it  only  to  make  his  old  rival  the  pur- 
chaser, if  he  so  pleased  it,  of  the  possessions  of  his  own  family? 
Lumley  thought  at  that  moment  less  of  Evelyn  than  of  Lisle 
Court.  As  he  woke  from  the  stupor  and  the  first  fit  of  rage 
into  which  these  epistles  cast  him,  the  recollection  of  the  story 
he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Onslow  flashed  across  him.  Were  his 
suspicions  true,  what  a  secret  he  would  possess  !  How  fate 
might  yet  befriend  him  !  Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  Weak, 
suffering  as  he  still  was,  he  ordered  his  carriage,  and  hastened 
down  to  Mrs.  Leslie. 

In  the  interview  that  took  place,  he  was  careful  not  to  alarm 
her  into  discretion.  He  managed  the  conference  with  his 
usual  consummate  dexterity.  He  did  not  appear  to  believe 
that  there  had  been  any  actual  connection  between  Alice  and 
the  supposed  Butler.  He  began  by  simply  asking  whether 
Alice  had  ever,  in  early  life,  been  acquainted  with  a  person  of  that 

name,  and  when  residing  in  the  neighborhood  of  C ?    The 

change  of  countenance — the  surprised  start  of  Mrs.  Leslie — 
convinced  him  that  his  suspicions  were  true. 

"  And  why  do  you  ask,  my  lord  ?  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Is  it 
to  ascertain  this  point  that  you  have  done  me  the  honor  to 
visit  me  ? " 

*'  Not  exactly,  my  dear  inadam,"  said  Lumley  smiling.    "  But 


286  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

I  am  going  to  C on  business  ;  and,  besides  that  I   wished 

to  give  an  account  of  your  health  to  Evelyn,  whom  1  shall 
shortly  see  in  Paris,  I  certainly  did  desire  to  know  whether  it 
would  be  any  gratification  to  Lady  Vargrave,  for  whom  I  have 
the  deepest  regard,  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  the  same 
Mr.  Butler?" 

*'  What  does  your  lordship  know  of  him  ?  What  is  he  ? — who 
is  he  ? " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  you  turn  the  tables  on  me,  I  see — for  one 
question  you  would  give  me  fifty.  But,  seriously,  before  I  an- 
swer you,  you  must  tell  me  whether  Lady  Vargrave  does 
know  a  gentleman  of  that  name  ;  yet,  indeed,  to  save  trouble 
I  may  as  well  inform  you,  that  1  know  it  was  under  that  name 

that  she  resided  at  C ,  when  my  poor   uncle   first  made  her 

acquaintance.  What  I  ought  to  ask,  is  this, — supposing 
Mr,  Butler  be  still  alive,  and  a  gentleman  of  character  and 
fortune,  would  it  please  Lady  Vargrave  to  meet  him  once 
more?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  much  embarrassed. 

"  Enough,  I  shall  not  stir  further  in  the  matter.  Glad  to  see 
you  looking  so  well.  Fine  place — beautiful  trees.  Any  com- 
mands at  C ,  or  any  message  for  Evelyn  ? " 

Lumley  rose  to  depart. 

"  Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  recalling  all  the  pining,  untiring 
love  that  Lady  Vargrave  had  manifested  towards  the  lost,  and 
feeling  that  she  ought  not  to  sacrifice  to  the  slightest  scruples 
the  chance  of  happiness  for  her  friend's  future  years, — "stay — 
I  think  this  question  you  should  address  to  Lady  Vargrave — or 
shall  I  ? " 

"  As  you  will — perhaps  /  had  better  write.  Good-day,"  and 
Vargrave  hurried  away. 

He  had  satisfied  himself,  but  he  had  another  yet  to  satisfy, — 
and  that,  from  certain  reasons  known  but  to  himself,  without 
bringing  the  third  person  in  contact  with  Lady  Vargrave.     On 

arriving   at  C he   wrote,  therefore,  to   Lady  Vargrave   as 

follows : 

"  My  Dear  Friend, — Do  not  think  me  impertinent  or  in- 
trusive— but  you  know  me  too  well  for  that.  A  gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Butler  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  ascertain  if  you 

once  lived  near  C ,  in  a  pretty  little   cottage — Dove,  or 

Dale,  or  Dell  Cottage  (some  such  appellation), — and  if  you 
remember  a  person  of  his  name  ? — Should  you  care  to  give  a 


Alice  ;   or,  th^  Mysteries.  2^7 

i-eply  to  these  queries,  send  me  a  line  addressed  to  London, 
which  I  shall  get  on  my  way  to  Paris. 

"  Yours  most  truly, 

"  Vargrave." 

As  soon  as  he  had  concluded  and  despatched  this  letter, 
Vargrave  wrote  to  Mr.  Winsley  as  follows  : 

"  My  Dear  Sir, — I  am  so  unwell,  as  to  be  unable  to  call 
on  you,  or  even  to  see  any  one,  however  agreeable  (nay,  the 
more  agreeable  the  more  exciting !)    I  hope,  however,  to  renew 

our  personal  acquaintance  before  quitting  C .    Meanwhile, 

oblige  me  with  a  line  to  say  if  I  did  not  understand  you  to 
signify  that  you  could,  if  necessary,  prove  that  Lady  Vargrave 
once  resided  in  this  town  as  Mrs.  Butler,  a  very  short  time 
before  she  married  my  uncle,  under  the  name  of  Cameron,  in 
Devonshire ;  and  had  she  not  also  at  that  time  a  little  girl — an 
infant,  or  nearly  so, — who  must  necessarily  be  the  young  lady 
who  is  my  uncle's  heiress.  Miss  Evelyn  Cameron  ?  My  reason 
for  troubling  you  is  obvious.  As  Miss  Cameron's  guardian,  I 
have  very  shortly  to  wind  up  certain  affairs  connected  with  my 
uncle's  will ;  and,  what  is  more,  there  is  some  property  be- 
queathed by  the  late  Mr.  Butler,  which  may  make  it  necessary 
to  prove  identity. 

"  Truly  yours, 

•*  Vargrave." 

The  answer  to  the  latter  communication  ran  thus  : 

"  My  Lord, — I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  your  lordship  is  so 
unwell,  and  will  pay  my  respects  to-morrow.  I  certainly  can 
swear  that  the  present  Lady  Vargrave  was  the  Mrs.  Butler  who 

resided  at  C ,  and  taught  music.     And  as  the  child  with 

her  was  of  the  same  sex,  and  about  the  same  age,  as  Miss 
Cameron,  there  can,  I  should  think,  be  no  difficulty  in  estab- 
lishing the  identity  between  that  young  lady  and  the  child 
Lady  Vargrave  had  by  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Butler ;  but  of 
this,  of  course,  I  cannot  speak. 

"  I  have  the  honor, 

•*  Etc.,  etc." 

The  "next  morning  Vargrave  despatched  a  note  to  Mr. 
Winsley,  saying  that  his  health  required  him  to  return  to  town 
immediately, — and  to  town,  in  fact,  he  hastened.  The  day 
after  his  arrival,  he  received,  in  a  hurried  hand — strangely 
blurred  and  blotted,  perhaps  by  tears, — this  short  letter : 


288  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYStERtEg. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  you  mean  !  Yes — yes, — I 
did  once  reside  at  Dale  Cottage — I  did  know  one  of  the  name 
of  Butler  !  Has  he  discovered  the  name  /  bear?  Where  is 
he  ?  I  implore  you  to  write,  or  let  me  see  you  before  you 
leave  England  !  Alice  Vargrave." 

Lumley  smiled  triumphantly  when  he  read,  and  carefully 
put  up,  this  letter. 

"  I  must  now  amuse  and  put  her  ofif — at  all  events  for  the 
present." 

In  answer  to  Lady  Vargrave's  letter,  he  wrote  a  few  lines  to 
say,  that  he  had  only  heard  through  a  third  person  (a  lawyer) 
of  a  Mr.  Butler  residing  somewhere  abroad,  who  had  wished 
these  inquiries  to  be  made — that  he  believed  it  only  related  to 
some  disposition  of  property — that,  perhaps,  the  Mr.  Butler 
who  made  the  inquiry  was  heir  to  the  Mr.  Butler  she  had 
known — that  he  could  learn  nothing  else  at  present,  as  the  pur- 
port of  her  reply  must  be  sent  abroad  ;  the  lawyer  would  or 
could  say  nothing  more — that  directly  he  received  a  further 
communication  it  should  be  despatched  to  her — that  he  was 
most  affectionately  and  most  truly  hers. 

The  rest  of  that  morning  Vargrave  devoted  to  Lord  Saxing- 
ham  and  his  allies ;  and  declaring,  and  believing,  that  he 
should  not  be  long  absent  at  Paris,  he  took  an  early  dinner, 
and  was  about  once  more  to  commit  himself  to  the  risks  of 
travel,  when,  as  he  crossed  the  hall,  Mr.  Douce  came  hastily 
upon  him. 

"  My  lord — my  lord — I  must  have  a  word  with  your  l-l-lord- 
ship, — you  are  going  to — that  is — "  (and  the  little  man  looked 
frightened)  "you  intend  to — to  go  to — that  is — ab  ab-ab — " 

"  Not  abscond,  Mr.  Douce — come  into  the  library  :  I  am  in 
a  great  hurry,  but  I  have  always  time  for  you — what's  the 
matter?" 

"  Why,  then,  my  lord, — I — I  have  heard  nothing  m-m-more 
from  your  lordship  about  the  pur-pur — " 

"  Purchase  ? — I  am  going  to  Paris,  to  settle  all  particulars 
with  Miss  Cameron  ;  tell  the  lawyers  so." 

"  May — may — we  draw  out  the  money  to — to — show — that — 
that  we  are  in  earnest  ?  Otherwise  I  fear — that  is,  I  suspect — 
I  mean  I  know,  that  Colonel  Maltravers  will  be  off  the  bar- 
gain." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Douce,  really  I  must  just  see  my  ward  first !  but 
you  shall  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or  two, — and  the  ten  thousand 
pounds  I  owe  you  \ " 


AtlCE  ;    on,  THE   MVStEkl^S.  2§9 

**  Yes,  indeed,  the  ten — ten — ten — my  partner  is  very — " 
"Anxious  for  it,  no  doubt! — my  compliments  to  him — God 
bless  you  ! — take  care  of  yourself — must  be  off  to  save  the 
packet;"    and  Vargrave   hurried    away,    muttering,    "Heaven 
sends  money,  and  the  devil  sends  duns  ! " 

Douce  gasped  like  a  fish  for  breath,  as  his  eyes  followed  the 
rapid  steps  of  Vargrave  ;  and  there  was  an  angry  scowl  of  dis- 
appointment on  his  small  features.  Lumley,  by  this  time,  seated 
in  his  carriage,  and  wrapped  up  in  his  cloak,  had  forgotten  the 
creditor's  existence,  and  whispered  to  his  aristocratic  secretary, 
as  he  bent  his  head  out  of  the  window:  "I  have  told  Lord  Sax- 
ingham  to  despatch  you  to  me,  if  there  is  any — the  least — 
necessity  for  me  in  London.  I  leave  you  behind,  Howard, 
because  your  sister  being  at  court,  and  your  cousin  with  our 
notable  premier,  you  will  find  out  every  change  in  the  wind — 
you  understand.  And  I  say,  Howard — don't  think  I  forget 
your  kindness  ! — you  know  that  no  man  ever  served  me  in 
vain  ! — Oh,  there's  that  horrid  little  Douce  behind  you  ! — tell 
them  to  drive  on  ! " 


CHAPTER  n. 

*  *         "  Heard  you  that  ? 

What  prodigy  of  horror  is  disclosing  ?  " — LiLLS  :  Fatal  Curiosity. 

The  unhappy  companion  of  Cesarini's  flight  was  soon  dis- 
covered and  recaptured  ;  but  all  search  for  Cesarini  himself 
proved  ineffectual,  not  only  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Cloud, 
but  in  the  surrounding  country  and  in  Paris.  The  only  comfort 
was  in  thinking  that  his  watch  would  at  least  preserve  him  for 
some  time  from  the  horrors  of  want ;  and  that,  by  sale  of  the 
trinket,  he  might  be  traced.  The  police,  too,  were  set  at  work — 
the  vigilant  police  of  Paris  !  Still  day  rolled  on  day,  and  no 
tidings.  The  secret  of  the  escape  was  carefully  concealed  from 
Teresa  ;  and  public  cares  were  a  sufficient  excuse  for  the  gloom 
on   De  Montaigne's  brow. 

Evelyn  heard  from  Maltravers,  with  mingled  emotions  of 
compassion,  grief  and  awe,  the  gloomy  tale  connected  with  the 
history  of  the  maniac.  She  wept  for  the  fate  of  Florence — 
she  shuddered  at  the  curse  that  had  fallen  on  Cesarini ;  and  per- 
haps Maltravers  grew  dearer  to  her  from  the  thought  that  there 
was  so  much  in  the  memories  of  the  past  that  needed  a  comforter 
and  a  soother. 

They  returned  to  Paris,  affianced  and  plighted   lovers  ;  and 


206  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYStEkiE^. 

then  it  was  that  Evelyn  souglU  carefully  and  resolutely  to  banish 
from  her  mind  all  recollection,  all  regret,  of  the  absent  Legard  : 
she  felt  the  solemnity  of  the  trust  confided  in  her,  and  she 
resolved  that  no  thought  of  hers  should  ever  be  of  a  nature  to 
gall  the  generous  and  tender  spirit  that  had  confided  its  life  to 
her  core.  The  influence  of  Maltravers  over  her  increased  in 
their  new  and  more  familiar  position  ;  and  yet  still  it  partook 
too  much  of  veneration — too  little  of  passion  ;  but  that  might 
be  her  innocence  and  youth.  He,  at  least,  was  sensible  of  no 
want — she  had  chosen  him  from  the  world  ;  and,  fastidious  as 
he  deemed  himself,  he  reposed,  without  a  doubt,  on  the  security  of 
her  faith.  None  of  those  presentiments  which  had  haunted  him 
when  first  betrothed  to  Florence  disturbed  him  now.  The  affec- 
tion of  one  so  young  and  so  guileless,  seemed  to  bring  back  to  him 
all  his  own  youth — we  are  ever  young  while  the  young  can  love 
us  !  Suddenly,  too,  the  world  took,  to  his  eyes,  a  brighter  and 
fairer  aspect — Hope,  born  again,  reconciled  him  to  his  career, 
and  to  his  race  !  The  more  he  listened  to  Evelyn,  the  more  he 
watched  every  evidence  of  her  docile  but  generous  nature,  the 
more  he  felt  assured  that  he  had  found,  at  last,  a  heart  suited 
to  his  own.  Her  beautiful  serenity  of  temper,  cheerful,  yet 
never  fitful  or  unquiet,  gladdened  him  with  its  insensible  con- 
tagion. To  be  with  Evelyn  was  like  basking  in  the  sunshine  of 
some  happy  sky  !  It  was  an  inexpressible  charm  to  one  wearied 
with  "  the  hack  sight  and  sounds"  of  this  jaded  world — to 
watch  the  ever  fresh  and  sparkling  thoughts  and  fancies  which 
came  from  a  soul  so  new  to  life  !  It  enchanted  one,  painfully 
fastidious  in  what  relates  to  the  true  nobility  of  character,  that, 
however  various  the  themes  discussed,  no  low  or  mean  thought 
ever  sullied  those  beautiful  lips.  It  was  not  the  mere  innocence 
of  inexperience,  but  the  moral  incapability  of  guile,  that  charmed 
him  in  the  companion  he  had  chosen  on  his  path  to  Eternity  ! 
He  was  also  delighted  to  notice  Evelyn's  readiness  of  resources  : 
she  had  that  faculty,  without  which  woman  has  no  independence 
from  the  world,  no  pledge  that  domestic  retirement  will  not  soon 
languish  into  wearisome  monotony — the  faculty  of  making  trifles 
contribute  to  occupation  or  amusement  ;  she  was  easily  pleased, 
and  yet  she  so  soon  reconciled  herself  to  disappointment.  He 
felt,  and  chid  his  own  dulness  for  not  feeling  it  before — that.young 
and  surpassingly  lovely  as  she  was,  she  required  no  stimulant 
from  the  heated  pursuits  and  the  hollow  admiration  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Such,"  thought  he,  "are  the  natures  that  alone  can  preserve 
through  years  the  poetry  of  the  first  passionate  illusion — that  can 


Alice  ;   ok,  the  mysteries.  i9t 

alone  render  wedlock  tlie  seal  that  confirms  affection,  and  not 
the  mocking  ceremonial  that  vainly  consecrates  its  grave  !" 

Maltravers,  as  we  have  seen,  formally  wrote  to  Lumley  some 
days  after  their  return  to  Paris.  He  would  have  written  also 
to  Lady  Vargrave — but  Evelyn  thought  it  best  to  prepare  her 
mother  by  a  letter  from  herself. 

Miss  Cameron  now  wanted  but  a  few  weeks  to  the  age  of 
eighteen,  at  which  she  was  to  be  the  sole  mistress  of  her  own 
destiny.  On  arriving  at  that  age,  the  marriage  was  to  take  place. 
Valerie  heard  with  sincere  delight  of  the  new  engagement  her 
friend  had  formed.  She  eagerly  sought  every  opportunity  to 
increase  her  intimacy  with  Evelyn,  who  was  completely  won  by 
her  graceful  kindness  ;  the  result  of  Valerie's  examination  was, 
that  she  did  not  wonder  at  the  passionate  love  of  Maltravers, 
but  that  her  deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  (that  knowl- 
edge so  remarkable  in  the  women  of  her  country  ! )  made  her 
doubt  how  far  it  was  adequately  returned — how  far  Evelyn 
deceived  herself.  Her  first  satisfaction  became  mingled  with 
anxiety,  and  she  relied  more  for  the  future  felicity  of  her  friend 
on  Evelyn's  purity  of  thought  and  general  tenderness  of  heart, 
than  on  the  exclusiveness  and  ardor  of  her  love.  Alas  !  few 
at  eighteen  are  not  too  young  for  the  irrevocable  step — and 
Evelyn  was  younger  than  her  years!  One  evening,  at  Madame 
de  Ventadour's,  Maltravers  asked  Evelyn  if  she  had  yet  heard 
from  Lady  Vargrave.  Evelyn  expressed  her  surprise  that  she 
had  not,  and  the  conversation  fell,  as  was  natural,  upon  Lady 
Vargrave  herself.  "  Is  she  as  fond  of  music  as  you  are  ? "  asked 
Maltravers. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  think  so — and  of  the  songs  of  a  certain 
person  in  particular  ;  they  always  had  for  her  an  indescribable 
charm.  Often  have  I  heard  her  say,  that  to  read  your  writings 
was  like  talking  to  an  early  friend.  Your  name  and  genius 
seemed  to  make  her  solitary  connection  with  the  great  world. 
Nay — but  you  will  not  be  angry — I  half  think  it  was  her  enthu- 
siasm, so  strange  and  rare,  that  first  taught  me  interest  in 
yourself." 

"  I  have  a  double  reason,  then,  for  loving  your  mother,"  said 
Maltravers,  much  pleased  and  flattered.  "  And  does  she  not 
like  Italian  music?" 

"  Not  much  ;  she  prefers  some  rather  old-fashioned  German 
airs,  very  simple,  but  very  touching." 

"  My  own  early  passion,"  said  Maltravers,  more  and  more 
interested. 

"But  there  are,  also,  one  or  two  English  songs  which  I  have 


t^i  ALICE  ;    OR,  tHfe   MYSTERIES. 

occasionaliy,  but  very  seldom,  heard  her  sing.  One  in  especial 
affects  her  so  deeply,  even  when  she  plays  the  air,  that  I  have 
always  attached  to  it  a  certain  mysterious  sanctity.  I  should 
not  like  to  sing  it  before  a  crowd  ;  but  to-morrow,  when  you 
call  on  me,  and  we  are  alone — " 

**  Ah,  to-morrow  I  will  not  fail  to  remind  you." 

Their  conversation  ceased ;  yet,  somehow  or  other,  that 
night  when  he  retired  to  rest,  the  recollection  of  it  haunted 
Maltravers.  He  felt  a  vague,  unaccountable  curiosity  respect- 
ing this  secluded  and  solitary  mother;  all  concerning  her  early 
fate  seemed  so  wrapt  in  mystery.  Cleveland,  in  reply  to  his 
letter,  had  informed  him  that  all  inquiries  respecting  the  birth 
and  first  marriage  of  Lady  Vargrave  had  failed.  Evelyn  evi- 
dently knew  but  little  of  either,  and  he  felt  a  certain  delicacy 
in  pressing  questions  which  might  be  ascribed  to  the  inquisi- 
tiveness  of  a  vulgar  family  pride.  Moreover,  lovers  have  so 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  that  he  had  not  yet  found  time  to 
talk  at  length  to  Evelyn  about  third  persons.  He  slept  ill  that 
night — dark  and  boding  dreams  disturbed  his  slumber.  He 
rose  late  and  dejected  by  presentiments  he  could  not  master : 
his  morning  meal  was  scarcely  over,  and  he  had  already  taken 
his  hat  to  go  to  Evelyn's  for  comfort  and  sunshine,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  Lord 
Vargrave. 

Lumley  seated  himself  with  a  formal  gravity  very  unusual  to 
him  ;  and,  as  if  anxious  to  waive  unnecessary  explanations,  be- 
gan as  follows,  with  a  serious  and  impressive  voice  and  aspect : 

"  Maltravers,  of  late  years  we  have  been  estranged  from  each 
other ;  I  do  not  presume  to  dictate  to  you  your  friendships  or 
your  dislikes.  Why  this  estrangement  has  happened,  you  alone 
can  determine.  For  my  part,  I  am  conscious  of  no  offence ; 
that  which  I  was  I  am  still.  It  is  you  who  have  changed. 
Whether  it  be  the  difference  of  our  political  opinions,  or  any 
other  and  more  secret  cause,  I  know  not.  I  lament,  but  it  is 
now  too  late  to  attempt  to  remove  it.  If  you  suspect  me  of 
ever  seeking,  or  even  wishing,  to  sow  dissension  between  your- 
self and  my  ill-fated  cousin,  now  no  more,  you  are  mistaken. 
I  ever  sought  the  happiness  and  the  union  of  you  both.  And 
yet,  Maltravers,  you  then  came  between  me  and  an  early  and 
cherished  dream.  But  I  suffered  in  silence  ;  my  course  was  at 
least  disinterested,  perhaps  generous :  let  it  pass.  A  second 
time  you  cross  my  path — you  win  from  me  a  heart  I  had  long 
learned  to  consider  mine.  You  have  no  scruple  of  early  friend- 
ship— you  have  no  forbearance   towards  acknowledged   and 


AUC£  ;    oft,  tHE   MYSTERIES.  &g^ 

affianced  ties.  You  are  my  rival  with  Evelyn  Cameron,  and 
your  suit  has  prospered." 

"  Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "you  have  spoken  frankly; 
and  I  will  reply  with  an  equal  candor.  A  difference  of  tastes, 
tempers,  and  opinions,  led  us  long  since  into  opposite  paths.  I 
am  one  who  cannot  disunite  public  morality  from  private  vir- 
tue. From  motives  best  known  to  you,  but  which  I  say  openly 
I  hold  to  have  been  those  of  interest  or  ambition, — you  did  not 
change  your  opinions  (there  is  no  sin  in  that),  but  retaining 
them  in  private,  professed  others  in  public,  and  played  with  the 
destinies  of  mankind,  as  if  they  were  but  counters,  to  mark  a 
mercenary  game.  This  led  me  to  examine  your  character  with 
more  searching  eyes  ;  and  I  found  it  one  I  could  no  longer 
trust.  With  respect  to  the  Dead — let  the  pall  drop  over  that 
early  grave — I  acquit  you  of  all  blame.  He  who  sinned  has 
suffered  more  than  would  atone  the  crime  !  You  charge  me 
with  my  love  to  Evelyn.  Pardon  me,  but  I  seduced  no  affec- 
tion, I  have  broken  no  tie  !  Not  till  she  was  free,  in  heart  and 
in  hand,  to  choose  between  us,  did  I  hint  at  love.  Let  me 
think,  that  a  way  may  be  found  to  soften  one  portion  at  least 
of  the  disappointment  you  cannot  but  feel  acutely." 

"Stay!"  said  Lord  Yargrave  (who,  plunged  in  a  gloomy 
revery,  had  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  the  last  few  sentences  of 
his  rival) ;  "  stay,  Maltravers.  Speak  not  of  love  to  Evelyn  ! — 
a  horrible  foreboding  tells  me  that,  a  few  hours  hence,  you 
would  rather  pluck  out  your  tongue  by  the  roots,  than  couple 
the  words  of  love  with  the  thought  of  that  unfortunate  girl ! 
Oh,  if  I  were  vindictive,  what  awful  triumph  would  await  me 
now  !  What  retaliation  on  your  harsh  judgment,  your  cold 
contempt,  your  momentary  and  wretched  victory  over  me  ! 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  my  only  sentiment  is  that  of  terror 
and  woe  !  Maltravers,  in  your  earliest  youth,  did  you  form  con- 
nection with  one  whom  they  called  Alice  Darvil?" 

"  Alice  ! — merciful  Heaven  !  what  of  her  ?  " 

"  Did  you  never  know  that  the  Christian  name  of  Evelyn's 
mother  is  Alice  ?  " 

"  I  never  asked — I  never  knew  ;  but  it  is  a  common  name," 
faltered  Maltravers. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  resumed  Yargrave  :  "  with  Alice  Darvil  you 
lived  in  the  neighborhood  of ,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Go  on — go  on  !  " 

"  You  took  the  name  of  Butler — by  that  name  Alice  Darvil 
was  afterwards  known  in  the  town  in  which  my  uncle  resided — • 
(there  are  gaps  in  the  history  that  I  cannot  of  my  own  know- 


294  ALICE  ;    OR,  I'HE   MYSTERIES. 

ledge  fill  up) — she  taught  music — my  uncle  became  enamoured 
of  her — but  he  was  vain  and  worldly.  She  removed  into 
Devonshire,  and  he  married  her  there,  under  the  name  of  Cam- 
eron, by  which  name  he  hoped  to  conceal  from  the  world  the 
lowness  of  her  origin,  and  the  humble  calling  she  had  followed. 
— Hold  !  do  not  interrupt  me.  Alice  had  one  daughter,  as  was 
supposed,  by  a  former  marriage — that  daughter  was  the  off- 
spring of  him  whose  name  she  bore — yes,  of  the  false  Butler  ! — 
that  daughter  is  Evelyn  Cameron  !" 

"  Liar  ! — devil !  "  cried  Maltravers,  springing  to  his  feet,  as 
if  a  shot  had  pierced  his  heart.     "  Proofs — proofs  !  " 

"  Will  these  suffice  ?  "  said  Vargrave  :  as  he  drew  forth  the 
letters  of  Winsley  and  Lady  Vargrave.  Maltravers  took  them, 
but  it  was  some  moments  before  he  could  dare  to  read.  He 
supported  himself  with  difficulty  from  falling  to  the  ground  ; 
there  was  a  gurgle  in  his  throat,  like  the  sound  of  the  death- 
rattle  :  at  last  he  read,  and  dropped  the  letters  from  his  hand. 

"  Wait  me  here,"  he  said,  very  faintly,  and  moved  mechani- 
cally to  the  door. 

*'  Hold  !  "  said  Lord  Vargrave,  laying  his  hand  upon  Ernest's 
arm.  "  Listen  to  me  for  Evelyn's  sake — for  her  mother's.  You 
are  about  to  seek  Evelyn — be  it  so  !  I  know  that  you  possess 
the  godlike  gift  of  self-control.  You  will  not  suffer  her  to 
learn  that  her  mother  has  done  that  which  dishonors  alike 
mother  and  child  ?  You  will  not  consummate  your  wrong  to 
Alice  Darvil,  by  robbing  her  of  the  fruit  of  a  life  of  penitence 
and  remorse  ?  You  will  not  unveil  her  shame  to  her  own 
daughter  ?  Convince  yourself,  and  master  yourself  while  you 
do  so ! " 

"Fear  me  not,"  said-  Maltravers,  with  a  terrible  smile;  "I 
will  not  afflict  my  conscience  with  a  double  curse.  As  I  have 
sowed,  so  must  I  reap.     Wait  me  here !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

*        *        *     "Misery, 
That  gathers  force  each  moment  as  it  rolls. 
And  must,  at  last,  o'erwhelm  me  " — Lillo  :  Fatal  Curiosity. 

'  Maltravers  found  Evelyn  alone  ;  she  turned  towards  him 
with  her  usual  sweet  smile  of  welcome  ;  but  the  smile  vanished 
at  once,  as  her  eyes  met  his  changed  and  working  countenance  ; 
cold  drops  stood  upon  the  rigid  and  marble  brow — the  lips 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  295 

writhed  as  if  in  bodily  torture — the  muscles  of  the  face  had 
fallen,  and  there  was  a  wildness  which  appalled  her  in  the  fixed 
and  feverish  brightness  of  the  eyes. 

"  You  are  ill,  Ernest, — dear  Ernest,  you  are  ill, — your  look 
freezes  me !  " 

"  Nay,  Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers,  recovering  himself  by  one 
of  those  efforts  of  which  men  who  have  suffered  witJwut  sympathy 
are  alone  capable  ;  "  nay,  I  am  better  now  ;  I  have  been  ill — 
very  ill — but  I  am  better  ! " 

"  111  !  and  I  not  to  know  of  it  !  "  She  attempted  to  take  his 
hand  as  she  spoke.     Maltravers  recoiled. 

"  It  is  fire  ! — it  burns  ! — avaunt  !  "  he  cried  frantically. 
"  O  Heaven  !  spare  me,  spare  me !  " 

Evelyn  was  now  seriously  alarmed  ;  she  gazed  on  him  with 
the  tenderest  compassion.  Was  this  one  of  those  moody  and 
overwhelming  paroxysms  to  which  it  had  been  whispered  abroad 
that  he  was  subject  ?  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  despite  her  ter- 
ror, he  was  dearer  to  her  in  that  hour — as  she  believed,  of  gloom 
and  darkness — than  in  all  the  glory  of  his  majestic  intellect,  or 
all  the  blandishments  of  his  soft  address. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you?"  she  said,  approaching  him 
again  ;  "  have  you  seen  Lord  Vargrave  ?  I  know  that  he  has 
arrived,  for  his  servant  has  been  here  to  say  so ;  has  he  uttered 
anything  to  distress  you  ?  or  has — "  (she  added  falteringly  and 
timidly) — "  has  poor  Evelyn  offended  you  ?  Speak  to  me, — 
only  speak  ! " 

Maltravers  turned,  and  his  face  was  now  calm  and  serene  : 
save  by  its  extreme  and  almost  ghastly  paleness,  no  trace  of  the 
hell  within  him  could  be  discovered. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he  gently,  "I  know  not  this  morning 
what  I  say  or  do  ;  think  not  of  it — think  not  of  me — it  will  pass 
away  when  I  hear  your  voice." 

''  Shall  I  sing  to  you  the  words  I  spoke  of  last  night  ? — see,  I 
have  them  ready — I  know  them  by  heart  ;  but  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  read  them,  they  are  so  full  of  simple  but  deep 
feeling." 

Maltravers  took  the  song  from  her  hands,  and  bent  over  the 
paper  ;  at  first,  the  letters  seemed  dim  and  indistinct,  for  there 
was  a  mist  before  his  eyes  ;  but  at  last  a  chord  of  memory  was 
struck — he  recalled  the  words  :  they  were  some  of  those  he  had 
composed  for  Alice  in  the  first  days  of  their  delicious  inter- 
course— links  of  the  golden  chain,  in  which  he  had  sought  to 
bind  the  spirit  of  knowledge  to  that  of  love. 

"  And  frpm  whom,"  said  he,  in  a  faint  voice,asheqalmlyput 


296  ALICE  ;    OR,  TH_   .,1YSTER1ES. 

down  the  verses, — "  from  whom  did  your  mother  learn  these 
words  ?" 

"  I  know  not ;  some  dear  friend,  years  ago,  composed  and 
gave  them  to  her.  It  must  have  been  one  very  dear  to  her,  to 
judge  by  the  effect  they  still  produce." 

"  Think  you,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  hollow  voice — "  think  you 

IT  WAS  YOUR  FATHER  ?" 

**  My  father  ! — she  never  speaks  of  him  ! — I  have  been  early 
taught  to  shun  all  allusion  to  his  memory.  My  father  ! — it  is 
probable — yes  !  it  may  have  been  my  father ;  whom  else  could 
she  have  loved  so  fondly  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence  ;  Evelyn  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  I  have  heard  from  my  mother,  to-day,  Ernest  ;  her  letter 
alarms  me — 1  scarce  know  why  !  " 

'*  Ay  ! — and  how — " 

"  It  is  hurried  and  incoherent — almost  wild  :  she  says  she  has 
learned  some  intelligence  that  has  unsettled  and  unstrung  her 
mind  ;  she  has  requested  me  to  inquire  if  any  one  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  has  heard  of,  or  met  abroad,  some  person  of  the 
name  of  Butler.  You  start ! — have  you  known  one  of  that 
name  ?  " 

"  I ! — did  your  mother  never  allude  to  that  name  before  ?  " 

"  Never  ! — and  yet,  once  I  remember — " 

"  What  !  " 

"  That  I  was  reading  an  account  in  the  papers  of  the  sudden 
death  of  some  Mr.  Butler  ;  and  her  agitation  made  a  powerful 
and  strange  impression  upon  me — in  fact,  she  fainted,  and 
seemed  almost  delirious  when  she  recovered  ;  she  would  not 
rest  till  I  had  completed  the  account,  and  when  I  came  to  the 
particulars  of  his  age,  etc.  (he  was  old,  I  think),  she  clasped  her 
hands,  and  wept ;  but  they  seemed  tears  of  joy.  The  name  is 
so  common — whom  of  that  name  have  you  known  ?  " 

"  It  is  no  matter  !  Is  that  your  mother's  letter  ? — is  that  her 
handwriting  ?" 

"  Yes ;"  and  Evelyn  gave  the  letter  to  Maltravers.  He 
glanced  over  the  characters  ;  he  had  once  or  twice  seen  Lady 
Vargrave's  handwriting  before,  and  had  recognized  no  likeness 
between  that  handwriting  and  such  early  specimens  of  Alice's 
art  as  he  had  witnessed  so  many  years  ago,  but  now,  '*  trifles 
light  as  air  "  had  grown  "  confirmation  strong  as  proof  of  Holy 
Writ," — he  thought  he  detected  Alice  in  every  line  of  the  hur- 
ried and  blotted  scroll  ;  and  when  his  eye  rested  on  the  words — 
"Your  affectionate  mother,  Alice  I"  his  blood  curdled  in  his 
veins, 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES  297 

"  It  is  strange  ! "  said  he,  still  struggling  for  self-composure  ; 
"  strange  that  I  never  thought  of  asking  her  name  before, — 
Alice  !  her  name  is  Alice  ?  " 

"  A  sweet  name,  is  it  not  ?  it  accords  so  well  with  her  simple 
character — how  you  would  love  her  !  " 

As  she  said  this,  Evelyn  turned  to  Maltravers  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  again  she  was  startled  by  his  aspect ;  for  again  it 
was  haggard,  distorted,  and  convulsed. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  love  me,"  she  cried,  "  do  send  immediately  for 
advice  ! — And  yet,  is  it  illness,  Ernest,  or  is  it  some  grief  that 
you  hide  from  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  illness,  Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers,  rising  ;  and  his  knees 
knocked  together.  "  I  am  not  fit  even  for  your  companionship — 
I  will  go  home." 

"  And  send  instantly  for  advice  ?  " 

"  Ay  I    it  waits  me  there  already." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  and  you  will  write  to  me — one  little  word 
— to  relieve  me }    I  am  so  uneasy  !  " 

"I  will  write  to  you." 

"  This  evening?  " 

"Ay  !  " 

"Now  go — I  will  not  detain  you." 

He  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  but  when  he  reached  it  he 
turned,  and  catching  her  anxious  gaze,  he  opened  his  arms  ; 
overpowered  with  strange  fear  and  affectionate  sympathy,  she 
burst  into  passionate  tears  ;  and,  surprised  out  of  the  timidity 
and  reserve  wnich  had  hitherto  characterized  her  pure  and  meek 
attachment  to  him,  she  fell  on  his  breast,  and  sobbed  aloud. 
Maltravers  raised  his  hands,  and,  placing  them  solemnly  on  her 
young  head,  his  lips  muttered  as  if  in  prayer.  He  paused,  and 
strained  her  to  his  heart  ; — but  he  shunned  that  parting  kiss, 
which,  hitherto,  he  had  so  fondly  sought.  That  embrace  was 
one  of  agony,  and  not  of  rapture, — and  yet  Evelyn  dreamt  not 
that  he  designed  it  for  the  last  ! 

Maltravers  re-entered  the  room  in  which  he  had  left  Lord 
Vargrave,  who  still  awaited  his  return. 

He  walked  up  to  Lumley  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  You  have 
saved  me  from  a  dreadful  crime — from  an  everlasting  remorse — 
I  thank  you  ! " 

Hardened  and  frigid  as  his  nature  was,  Lumley  was  touched  ; 
the  movement  of  Maltravers  took  him  by  surprise.  "  It  has  been 
a  dreadful  duty,  Ernest,"  said  he,  pressing  the  hand  he  held  J 
"but  to  come,  too,  from  mc — ^your  rival!" 


298  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

"Proceed — proceed,  I  pray  you — explain  all  this — Yet  expla- 
nation ! — what  do  I  want  to  know  ? — Evelyn  is  my  daughter — 
Alice's  child  !  For  Heaven's  sake,  give  me  hope, — say  it  is  not 
so — say  that  she  is  Alice's  child,  but  not  mine  !  Father,  father! — 
and  they  call  it  a  holy  name — it  is  a  horrible  one  ! " 

"  Compose  yourself,  my  dear  friend  :  recollect  what  you  have 
escaped  !     You  will  recover  this  shock  ; — time — travel — " 

"  Peace,  man, — peace  !  Now  then  I  am  calm  !  When  Alice 
left  me  she  had  no  child.  I  knew  not  that  she  bore  within  her 
the  pledge  of  our  ill-omened  and  erring  love.  Verily,  the  sins 
of  my  youth  have  arisen  against  me  ;  and  the  curse  has  come 
home  to  roost !  " 

"I  cannot  explain  to  you  all  details." 

"But  why  not  have  told  me  of  this?  Why  not  have  warned 
me — why  not  have  said  to  me,  when  my  heart  could  have  been 
satisfied  by  so  sweet  a  tie — '  Thou  hast  a  daughter — thou  art  not 
desolate?'  Why  reserve  the  knowledge  of  the  blessing  until  it 
had  turned  to  poison  ?  Fiend  that  you  are  !  you  have  waited  this 
hour  to  gloat  over  the  agony  from  which  a  word  from  you — a 
year,  nay,  a  month  ago — a  little  month  ago, — might  have  saved 
me  and  her  !  " 

Maltravers,  as  he  spoke,  approached  Vargrave,  with  eyes 
sparkling  with  fierce  passion  ;  his  hand  clenched,  his  form  di- 
lated, the  veins  on  his  forehead  swelled  like  cords.  Lumley, 
brave  as  he  was,  recoiled. 

"I  knew  not  this  secret,"  said  he,  deprecatingly,  "till  a  few 
days  before  I  came  hither  ;  and  I  came  hither  at  once  to  disclose 
it  to  you.  Will  you  listen  to  me  ?  I  knew  that  my  uncle  had 
married  a  person  much  beneath  him  in  rank  ;  but  he  was  guarded 
and  cautious,  and  I  knew  no  more,  except  that  by  a  first  hus- 
band that  lady  had  one  daughter, — Evelyn.  A  chain  of  acci- 
dents suddenly  acquainted  me  with  the  rest."  Here  Vargrave 
pretty  faithfully  repeated  what  he  had  learned  from  the  brewer 

at  C ,  and  from  Mr.  Onslow  ;  but  when  he  came  to  the  tacit 

confirmation  of  all  his  suspicions,  received  from  Mrs.  Leslie,  he 
greatly  exaggerated,  and  greatly  distorted  the  account.  "Judge, 
then,"  concluded  Lumley,  "of  the  horror  with  which  I  heard  that 
you  had  declared  an  attachment  to  Evelyn,  and  that  it  was  re- 
turned. Ill  as  I  was,  I  hastened  hither :  you  know  the  rest, — 
are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"I  will  go  to  Alice  ! — I  will  learn  from  her  own  lips — yet  how 
can  I  meet  her  again  ?  How  say  to  her,  '  I  have  taken  from 
thee  thy  last  hope — I  have  broken  thy  child's  heart?'" 

**  Forgive  me,  but  J  should  Qonfess  to  you  that,  froMd  all  J  c^ii 


ALlCfi  ;    OR,  tHfi  MYStERiES.  >90 

learn  from  Mrs.  Leslie,  Lady  Vargrave  has  but  one  prayer — one 
hope  in  life — that  she  may  never  again  meet  with  her  betrayer. 
You  may,  indeed,  in  her  own  letter,  perceive  how  much  she  is 
terrified  by  the  thought  of  your  discovering  her.  She  has,  at 
length,  recovered  peace  of  mind,  and  tranquillity  of  conscience. 
She  shrinks  with  dread  from  the  prospect  of  ever  again  encoun- 
tering one  once  so  dear,  now  associated  in  her  mind  with  rec- 
ollections of  guilt  and  sorrow.  More  than  all  this,  she  is  sen- 
sitively alive  to  the  fear  of  shame,  the  dread  of  detection.  If 
ever  her  daughter  were  to  know  her  sin,  it  would  be  to  her  as  a 
death-blow.  Yet,  in  her  nervous  state  of  health,  her  ever  quick 
and  uncontrollable  feelings,  if  you  were  to  meet  her,  she  would 
disguise  nothing,  conceal  nothing.  The  veil  would  be  torn 
aside ;  the  menials  in  her  own  house  would  tell  the  tale,  and 
curiosity  circulate,  and  scandal  blacken,  the  story  of  her  early 
errors.  No,  Maltravers,  at  least  wait  awhile  before  you  see  her; 
wait  till  her  mind  can  be  prepared  for  such  an  interview,  till  pre- 
cautions can  be  taken,  till  you  yourself  are  in  a  calmer  state  of 
mind." 

Maltravers  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  on  Lumley  while  he  thus 
spoke,  and  listened  in  deep  attention. 

"It  matters  not,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause,  "whether  these 
be  your  real  reasons  for  wishing  to  defer  or  prevent  a  meeting 
between  Alice  and  myself.  The  affliction  that  has  come  upon 
me  bursts  with  too  clear  and  scorching  a  blaze  of  light,  for  me 
to  see  any  chance  of  escape  or  mitigation.  Even  if  Evelyn  were 
the  daughter  of  Alice  by  another,  she  would  be  forever  sepa- 
rated from  me. — The  mother  and  the  child  !  there  is  a  kind  of 
incest  even  in  that  thought !  But  such  an  alleviation  of  my  an- 
guish is  forbidden  to  my  reason.  No,  poor  Alice,  I  will  not  dis- 
turb the  repose  thou  hast  won  at  last !  Thou  shalt  never  have 
the  grief  to  know  that  our  error  has  brought  upon  thy  lover  so 
black  a  doom  !  All  is  over  !  the  world  never  shall  find  me 
again.     Nothing  is  left  for  me  but  the  desert  and  the  grave  ! " 

"Speak  not  so,  Ernest,"  said  Lord  Vargrave  soothingly;  "a 
little  while  and  you  will  recover  this  blow  :  your  control  over 
passion  has,  even  in  youth,  inspired  me  with  admiration  and 
surprise  ;  and  now,  in  calmer  years,  and  with  such  incentives  to 
self-mastery,  your  triumph  will  come  sooner  than  you  think. 
Evelyn,  too,  is  so  young  ;  she  has  not  known  you  long  ;  perhaps 
her  love,  after  all,  is  that  caused  by  some  mystic  but  innocent 
working  of  nature,  and  she  would  rejoice  to  call  you  'father.' 
Happy  years  are  yet  in  store  for  you." 

Maltravers  did  not  listen  to  these  vain  and  hollow  consolations. 


300  ALICE  ;    Oft,  tHE   MYSTERIES. 

With  his  head  drooping  on  liis  bosom,  his  whole  frame  unnerved, 
the  large  tears  rolling  unheeded  down  his  cheeks,  he  seemed  the 
very  picture  of  the  broken-hearted  man,  whom  fate  never  again 
could  raise  from  despair.  He — who  had,  for  years,  so  cased 
himself  in  pride,  on  whose  very  front  was  engraved  the  victory 
over  passion  and  misfortune,  whose  step  had  trod  the  earth  in 
the  royalty  of  the  Conqueror  ; — the  veriest  slave  that  crawls  bore 
not  a  spirit  more  humbled,  fallen,  or  subdued !  He  who  had 
looked  with  haughty  eyes  on  the  infirmities  of  others,  who  had 
disdained  to  serve  his  race,  because  of  their  human  follies  and 
partial  frailties — he^  even  he — the  Pharisee  of  Genius — had  but 
escaped  by  chance,  and  by  the  hand  of  the  man  he  suspected 
and  despised,  from  a  crime  at  which  nature  herself  recoils, — 
which  all  law,  social  and  divine,  stigmatizes  as  inexpiable — 
which  the  sternest  imagination  of  the  very  heathen  had  invented 
as  the  gloomiest  catastrophe  that  can  befall  the  wisdom  and  the 
pride  of  mortals !  But  one  step  farther,  and  the  fabulous  CEdi- 
pus  had  not  been  more  accursed  ! 

Such  thoughts  as  these,  unformed,  confused,  but  strong 
enough  to  bow  him  to  the  dust,  passed  through  the  mind  of 
this  wretched  man.  He  had  been  familiar  with  grief,  he  had 
been  dull  to  enjoyment  :  sad  and  bitter  memories  had  con- 
sumed his  manhood  ;  but  pride  had  been  left  him  still !  and  he 
had  dared  in  his  secret  heart  to  say,  "  lean  defy  Fate  !  "  Now 
the  bolt  had  fallen — Pride  was  shattered  into  fragments — Self- 
abasement  was  his  companion — Shame  sate  upon  his  prostrate 
soul.  The  Future  had  no  hope  left  in  store.  Nothing  was 
left  for  him  but  to  die  ! 

Lord  Vargrave  gazed  at  him  in  real  pain,  in  sincere  compas- 
sion ;  for  his  nature,  wily,  deceitful,  perfidious  though  it  was, 
had  cruelty  only  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  the  unrelenting  exe- 
cution of  his  schemes.  No  pity  could  swerve  him  from  a  pur- 
pose ;  but  he  had  enough  of  the  man  within  him  to  feel  pity 
not  the  less,  even  for  his  own  victim  !  At  length  Maltravers 
lifted  his  head,  and  waved  his  hand  gently  to  Lord  Vargrave. 

"  All  is  now  explained,"  said  he,  in  a  feeble  voice  ;  "  our  in- 
terview is  over.  I  must  be  alone  ;  I  have  to  collect  my  reason, 
to  commune  calmly  and  deliberately  with  myself  ;  I  have  to 
write  to  her — to  invent — to  lie — I,  who  believed  I  could  never, 
never  utter,  even  to  an  enemy,  what  was  false  ?  And  I  must 
not  soften  the  blow  to  her.  I  must  not  utter  a  word  of  love — 
love,  it  is  incest  !  I  must  endeavor  brutally  to  crush  out  the 
very  affection  I  created  !  She  must  hate  me — oh,  teach  her  to 
hate  me  I — Blacken  my  name,  traduce  my  motives, — let  her  be- 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  30I 

Heve  them  levity  or  perfidy,  what  you  will.  So  will  she  forget 
me  the  sooner  ;  so  will  she  the  easier  bear  the  sorrow  which 
the  father  brings  upon  the  child.  And  j//^  has  not  sinned  !  Oh 
Heaven,  the  sin  was  mine  !  Let  my  punishment  be  a  sacrifice 
that  thou  wilt  accept  for  her  !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  attempted  again  to  console  ;  but  this  time  the 
words  died  upon  his  lips.  His  arts  failed  him.  Maltravers 
turned  impatiently  away,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  I  will  see  you  again,"  said  he,  "  before  I  quit  Paris  :  leave 
your  address  below." 

Vargrave  was  not,  perhaps,  unwilling  to  terminate  a  scene  so 
painful  :  he  muttered  a  few  incoherent  words,  and  abruptly 
withdrew.  He  heard  the  door  locked  behind  him  as  he  de- 
parted.    Ernest  Maltravers  was  alone — what  a  solitude  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. " — Hamlet. 

letter  from  ernest  maltravers  to  evelyn  cameron. 

**  Evelyn  ! 

"  All  that  you  have  read  of  faithlessness  and  perfidy  will 
seem  tame  to  you  when  compared  with  that  conduct  which  you 
are  doomed  to  meet  from  me.  We  must  part,  and  for  ever. 
We  have  seen  each  other  for  the  last  time.  It  is  bootless  even 
to  ask  the  cause.  Believe  that  I  am  fickle,  false,  heartless — 
that  a  whim  has  changed  me,  if  you  will.  My  resolve  is  unal- 
terable. We  meet  no  more,  even  as  friends.  I  do  not  ask  you 
either  to  forgive  or  to  remember  me.  Look  on  me  as  one 
wholly  unworthy  even  of  resentment  !  Do  not  think  I  write 
this  in  madness,  or  in  fever,  or  excitement.  Judge  me  not  by 
my  seeming  illness  this  morning.  I  invent  no  excuse,  no  ex- 
tenuation for  my  broken  faith  and  perjured  vows.  Calmly, 
coldly,  and  deliberately  I  write  ;  and  thus  writing,  I  renounce 
your  love. 

"  This  language  is  wanton  cruelty — it  is  fiendish  insult — is  it 
not,  Evelyn  ?  Am  I  not  a  villain  ?  Are  you  not  grateful  for 
your  escape?  Do  you  not  look  on  the  past  with  a  shudder  at 
the  precipice  on  which  you  stood  ? 

"  I  have  done  with  this  subject,  I  turn  to  another.  We  are 
parted,  Evelyn,  and  for  ever.  Do  not  fancy — I  repeat,  do  not 
fancy  that  there  is  any  error,  any  strange  infatuation   on  my 


36i  ALICE  ;    OR,  tHE  MYStfiftlfiS. 

mind,  that  there  is  any  possibility  that  the  sentence  can  be  an- 
nulled. It  were  almost  easier  to  call  the  dead  from  the  grave 
than  bring  us  again  together,  as  we  were  and  as  we  hoped  to 
be.  Now  that  you  are  convinced  of  that  truth,  learn,  as  soon 
as  you  have  recovered  the  first  shock  of  knowing  how  much 
wickedness  there  is  on  earth — learn  to  turn  to  the  future  for 
happier  and  more  suitable  ties  than  those  you  could  have  formed 
with  me.  You  are  very  young — in  youth  our  first  impressions 
are  lively  but  evanescent — you  will  wonder  hereafter  at  having 
fancied  you  loved  me.  Another  and  a  fairer  image  will  re- 
place mine.  This  is  what  I  desire  and  pray  for.  As  soon  as  I 
learn  that  you  love  another,  that  you  are  wedded  to  another,  I  will 
reappear  in  the  world :  till  then,  1  am  a  wanderer  and  an  exile. 
Your  hand  alone  can  efface  from  my  brow  the  brand  of  Cain  ! 
When  I  am  gone,  Lord  Vargrave  will  probably  renew  his  suit. 
I  would  rather  you  married  one  of  your  own  years — one  whom 
you  could  love  fondly — one  who  would  chase  away  every  re- 
membrance of  the  wretch  who  now  forsakes  you.  But  perhaps 
I  have  mistaken  Lord  Vargrave's  character — perhaps  he  may 
be  worthier  of  you  than  I  deemed  (/  who  set  up  for  the  censor 
of  other  men  !) — perhaps  he  may  both  win  and  deserve  your 
affection. 

"  Evelyn,  farewell — God,  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb,  will  watch  over  you  ! 

"  Ernest  Maltravers." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
The  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." — JOHN  FLETCHER. 

The  next  morning  came ;  the  carriage  was  at  the  door  of 
Maltravers,  to  bear  him  away  he  cared  not  whither.  Where 
could  he  fly  from  memory?  He  had  just  despatched  the  letter 
to  Evelyn — a  letter  studiously  written  for  the  object  of  destroy- 
ing all  the  affection  to  which  he  had  so  fondly  looked  as  the 
last  charm  of  life.  He  was  now  only  waiting  for  Vargrave,  to 
whom  he  had  sent,  and  who  hastened  to  obey  the  summons. 

WhenLumley  arrived,  he  was  shocked  at  the  alteration  which 
a  single  night  had  effected  in  the  appearance  of  Maltravers ; 
but  he  was  surprised  and  relieved  to  find  him  calm  and  self- 
possessed. 

"  Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "  whatever  our  past  coldness, 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  303 

henceforth  I  owe  to  you  an  eternal  gratitude  ;  and  henceforth 
this  awful  secret  makes  between  us  an  indissoluble  bond.  If 
I  have  understood  you  rightly,  neither  Alice  nor  other  living 
being  than  yourself  knows  that  in  me,  Ernest  Maltravers,  stands 
the  guilty  object  of  Alice's  first  love.  Let  that  secret  still  be 
kept ;  relieve  Alice's  mind  from  the  apprehension  of  learning 
that  the  man  who  betrayed  her  yet  lives  :  he  will  not  live  long  ! 
I  leave  time  and  method  of  explanation  to  your  own  judgment 
and  acuteness.  Now  for  Evelyn."  Here  Maltravers  stated 
generally  the  tone  of  the  letter  he  had  written.  Vargrave 
listened  tnoughtfully. 

"Maltravers,"  said  he,  "it  is  right  to  try  first  the  effect  of 
your  letter.  But  if  it  fail — if  it  only  serve  to  inflame  the  imagin- 
ation and  excite  the  interest — if  Evelyn  still  continue  to  love 
you — if  that  love  preys  upon  her — if  it  should  undermine  health 
and  spirit — if  it  should  destroy  her  ?" — 

Maltravers  groaned.  I>uniley  proceeded,  "I  say  this  not  to 
wound  you>  but  to  provide  against  all  circumstances.  I  too 
have  spent  rhe  night  in  revolving  what  is  best  to  be  done  in 
such  a  case ;  and  this  is  the  plan  I  have  formed.  Let  us,  if 
need  be,  teh  the  truth  to  Evelyn,  robbing  the  truth  only  of  its 
shame.  Nay, nay,  listen.  Why  not  say  that,  under  aborrowed 
name,  and  in  the  romance  of  early  youth,  you  knew  and  loved 
Alice  (though  in  innocence  and  honor):  your  tender  age — the 
difference  ot  rank — forbade  your  union.  Her  father,  discover- 
ing your  clandestine  correspondence,  suddenly  removed  her 
from  the  country,  and  destroyed  all  clue  for  your  inquiries. 
You  lost  sight  of  each  other — each  was  taught  to  believe  the 
other  dead.  Alice  was  compelled  by  her  father  to  marry  Mr. 
Cameron  ;  and,  after  his  death,  her  poverty  and  her  love  for 
her  only  child  induced  her  to  accept  my  uncle.  You  have  now 
learned  all — have  learned  that  Evelyn  is  the  daughter  of  your 
first  love — the  daughter  of  one  who  adores  you  still,  and  whose 
life  your  remembrance  has,  for  so  many  years,  embittered. 
Evelyn  herself  will  at  once  comprehend  all  the  scruples  of  a 
delicate  mind  ;  Evelyn  herself  will  recoil  from  the  thought  of 
making  the  child  the  rival  to  the  mother.  She  will  understand 
why  you  have  flown  from  her ;  she  will  sympathize  with  your 
struggles  ;  she  will  recall  the  constant  melancholy  of  Alice ; 
she  will  hope  that  the  ancient  love  may  be  renewed,  and  efface 
all  grief;  Geneiosity  and  Duty  alike  will  urge  her  to  conquer 
her  own  affection  !  And  hereafter,  when  time  has  restored  you 
both,  father  and  child  may  meet  with  such  sentiments  as  father 
and  child  may  own  !  " 


304  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

Maltravers  was  silent  for  some  minutes ;  at  length  he  said 
abruptly,  "And  you  really  loved  her,  Vargrave? — you  love  her 
still  ? — your  dearest  care  must  be  her  welfare." 

"  It  is  ! — indeed,  it  is  ! " 

"  Then  I  must  trust  to  your  discretion  ;  I  can  have  no  other 
confidant;  I  myself  am  not  fit  to  judge.  My  mind  is  darkened — 
you  may  be  right — I  think  so." 

"One  word  more — she  may  discredit  my  tale  if  unsupported. 
Will  you  write  one  line  to  me,  to  say  that  I  am  authorized  to 
reveal  the  secret,  and  that  it  is  known  only  to  me?  I  will  not 
use  it  unless  I  should  think  it  absolutely  required." 

Hastily  and  mechanically  Maltravers  wrote  a  few  words  to 
the  effect  of  what  Lumley  had  suggested.  "I  will  inform  you," 
he  said  to  Vargrave  as  he  gave  him  the  paper,  "  of  whatever 
spot  may  become  my  asylum  ;  and  you  can  communicate  to  me 
all  that  I  dread  and  long  to  hear ;  but  let  no  man  know  the 
refuge  of  despair ! " 

There  was  positively  a  tear  in  Vargrave's  cold  eye ;  the  only 
tear  that  had  glistened  there  for  many  years ;  he  paused  irresolute, 
then  advanced,  again  halted,  muttered  to  himself,  and  turned 
aside. 

"As  for  the  world,"  Lumley  resumed,  after  a  pause,  "your 
engagement  has  been  public — some  public  account  of  its  breach 
must  be  invented.  You  have  always  been  considered  a  proud 
man  ;  we  will  say  that  it  was  low  birth  on  the  side  of  both  mother 
and  father  (the  last  only  just  discovered)  that  broke  off  the 
alliance ! " 

Vargrave  was  talking  to  the  deaf,  what  cared  Maltravers  for 
the  world  ?  He  hastened  from  the  room,  threw  himself  into  his 
carriage,  and  Vargrave  was  left  to  plot,  to  hope,  and  to  aspire ! 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  305 


BOOK   X. 

OlXov  'OvEipov. — Homer. 
A  dream. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Qualis  ubi  in  lucem  coluber 
^  ^     Mala  gramina  pastus."  * — ViRGIL. 

"  Pars  minima  est  ipsa  puella  sui."  f — Ovid. 

It  would  he  superfluous,  and,  perhaps,  a  sickening  task,  to 
detail  at  length  the  mode  and  manner  in  which  Vargrave  coiled 
his  snares  round  the  unfortunate  girl  whom  his  destiny  had 
marked  out  for  his  prey.  He  was  right  in  foreseeing  that,  after 
the  first  amazement  caused  by  the  letter  of  Maltravers,  Evelyn 
would  feel  resentment  crushed  beneath  her  certainty  of  his 
affection  ;  her  incredulity  at  his  self-accusations,  and  her  secret 
conviction  that  some  reverse,  some  misfortune  he  was  unwilling 
she  should  share,  was  the  occasion  of  his  farewell  and  fliglit. 
Vargrave  therefore  very  soon  communicated  to  Evelyn  the  tale 
he  had  suggested  to  Maltravers.  He  reminded  her  of  the 
habitual  sorrow,  the  evidence  of  which  was  so  visible  in  Lady 
Vargrave — of  her  indifference  to  the  pleasures  of  the  world — 
of  her  sensitive  shrinking  from  all  recurrence  to  her  early  fate. 
"  The  secret  of  this,"  said  he,  "  is  in  a  youthful  and  most  fervent 
attachment ;  your  mother  loved  a  young  stranger  above  her  in 
rank,  who  (his  head  being  full  of  German  romance)  was  then 
roaming  about  the  country  on  pedestrian  and  adventurous  excur- 
sions, under  the  assumed  name  of  Butler.  By  him  she  was  most 
ardently  beloved  in  return.  Her  father,  perhaps,  suspected  the 
rank  of  her  lover,  and  was  fearful  of  her  honor  being  com- 
promised. He  was  a  strange  man,  that  father  !  and  I  know  not 
his  real  character  and  motives  !  but  he  suddenly  withdrew  his 
daughter  from  the  suit  and  search  of  her  lover — they  saw  each 
other  no  more  ;  her  lover  mourned  her  as  one  dead.  In  process 
of  time  your  mother  was  constrained  by  her  father  to  marry  Mr. 
Cameron,  and  was  left  a  widow  with  an  only  child — yourself  : 
she  was  poor — very  poor  !  and  her  love  and  anxiety  for  you  at 
last  induced  her  to  listen  to  the  addresses  of  my  late  uncle  ;  for 
your  sake  she  married  again — again  death  dissolved  the  tie ! 

♦  As  when  a  snake  glides  into  light,  having  fed  on  pernicious  pastures, 
t  Th?  girl  is  the  least  part  of  biinseUi 


306  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

But  Still,  unceasingly  and  faithfully,  she  recalled  that  first  love, 
the  memory  of  which  darkened  and  embittered  all  her  life — and 
still  she  lived  upon  the  hope  to  meet  with  the  lost  again.  At 
last,  and  most  recently,  it  was  my  fate  to  discover  that  the  object 
of  this  unconquerable  affection  lived — was  still  free  in  hand  if 
not  in  heart :  Yuu  beliold  the  lover  of  your  mother  in  Ernest 
Maltravers!  It  devolved  on  me  (an  invidious — a  reluctant 
duty)  to  inform  Maltravers  of  the  identity  of  Lady  Vargrave 
with  the  Alice  of  his  boyish  passion  !  to  prove  to  him  her 
suffering,  patient,  unsubdued  affection  ;  to  convince  him  that 
the  sole  hope  left  to  her  in  life  was  that  of  one  day  or  other 
beholding  him  once  again.  You  know  Maltravers — his  high- 
wrought,  sensitive,  noble  character  :  he  recoiled  in  terror  from 
the  thought  of  making  his  love  to  the  daughter  the  last  and 
bitterest  affliction  to  the  mother  he  had  so  loved  ;  knowing  too 
how  completely  that  mother  had  entwined  herself  round  your 
affections,  he  shuddered  at  the  pain  and  self-reproach  that  would 
be  yours  when  you  should  discover  to  whom  you  had  been  the 
rival,  and  whose  the  fond  hopes  and  dreams  that  your  fatal 
beauty  had  destroyed.  Tortured,  despairing,  and  half  beside 
himself,  he  has  fled  from  this  ill-omened  passion,  and  in  solitude 
he  now  seeks  to  subdue  that  passion.  Touched  by  the  woe,  the 
grief,  of  the  Alice  of  his  youth,  it  is  his  intention,  as  soon  as  he 
can  know  you  restored  to  liappiness  and  content,  to  hasten  to 
your  mother,  and  offer  his  future  devotion  as  the  fulfilment  of 
former  vows.  On  you,  and  you  alone,  it  depends  to  restore 
Maltravers  to  the  world, — on  you  alone  it  depends  to  bless  the 
remaining  years  of  the  mother  who  so  dearly  loves  you  !  " 

It  may  be  easily  conceived  with  what  sensations  of  wonder, 
compassion,  and  dismay,  Evelyn  listened  to  this  tale,  the  progress 
of  which  her  exclamations — her  sobs — often  interrupted.  Slie 
would  write  instantly  to  her  mother — to  Maltravers.  Oh  !  how 
gladly  she  could  relinquish  his  suit!  How  cheerfully  promise 
to  rejoice  in  that  desertion  which  brought  happiness  to  the 
mother  she  had  so  loved  ! 

"Nay,"  said  Vargrave,  "your  mother  must  not  know,  till  the 
intelligence  can  be  breathed  by  his  lips,  and  softened  by  his 
protestations  of  returning  affection,  that  the  mysterious  object 
of  her  early  romance  is  that  Maltravers  whose  vows  have  been 
so  lately  offered  to  her  own  child.  Would  not  such  intelligence 
shock  all  pride  and  destroy  all  hope  ?  How  could  she  then  con- 
sent to  the  sacrifice  which  Maltravers  is  prepared  to  make  ?  No! 
not  till  you  are  another's,  not  (to  use  the  words  of  Maltravers)  till 
you  are  a  happy  and  beloved  wife — must  your  mother  receive 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  307 

the  returning  homage  of  Maltravers — not  till  then  can  she  know 
where  that  homage  has  been  recently  rendered — not  till  then 
can  Maltravers  feel  justified  in  the  atonement  he  meditates.  He 
is  willing  to  sacrifice  himself — he  trembles  at  the  thought  of 
sacrificing  you  I — Say  nothing  to  your  mother,  till,  from  her 
own  lips,  she  tells  you  that  she  has  learned  ail." 

Could  Evelyn  hesitate  ? — could  Evelyn  doubt  ?  To  allay  the 
fears,  to  fulfil  the  prayers  of  the  man  whose  conduct  appeared 
so  generous — to  restore  him  to  peace  and  the  world — above  all, 
to  pluck  from  the  heart  of  that  beloved  and  gentle  mother  the 
rankling  dart — to  shed  happiness  over  her  fate — to  reunite  her 
with  the  loved  and  lost ;  what  sacrifice  too  great  for  this? 

Ah  !  why  was  Legard  absent?  Why  did  she  believe  him  ca- 
pricious, light,  and  false  ?  Why  had  she  shut  her  softest  thoughts 
from  her  soul  ?  But  he — the  true  lover — was  afar,  and  his  true 
love  unknown  !  and  Vargrave,  the  watchful  serpent,  was  at  hand. 

In  a  fatal  hour,  and  in  the  transport  of  that  enthusiasm  which 
inspires  alike  our  more  rash  and  our  more  sublime  deeds — 
which  makes  us  alike  dupes  and  martyrs — the  enthusiasm  that 
tramples  upon  self,  that  forfeits  all  things  to  a  high-wrought 
zeal  for  others,  Evelyn  consented  to  become  the  wife  of  Var- 
grave !  Nor  was  she  at  first  sensible  of  the  sacrifice — sensible 
of  anything  but  the  glow  of  a  noble  spirit  and  an  approving  con- 
science. Yes,  thus,  and  thus  alone,  did  she  obey  both  duties : 
that,  which  she  had  well-nigh  abandoned,  to  her  dead  benefactor 
and  that  to  the  living  mother.  Afterwards  came  a  dread  reac- 
tion ;  and  then,  at  last,  that  passive  and  sleep-like  resignation, 
which  is  Despair  under  a  milder  name.  Yes — such  a  lot  had 
been  predestined  from  the  first — in  vain  had  she  sought  to  fly 
it :  Fate  had  overtaken  her,  and  she  must  submit  to  the  decree  ! 

She  was  most  anxious  that  the  intelligence  of  the  new  bond 
might  be  transmitted  instantly  to  Maltravers.  Vargrave  prom- 
ised, but  took  care  not  to  perform.  He  was  too  acute  not  to 
know  that,  in  so  sudden  a  step,  Evelyn's  motives  would  be  ap- 
parent ;  and  his  own  suit  indelicate  and  ungenerous.  He  was 
desirous  that  Maltravers  should  learn  nothing  till  the  vows  had 
been  spoken,  and  the  indissoluble  chain  forged.  Afraid  to 
leave  Evelyn,  even  for  a  day,  afraid  to  trust  her  in  England  to 
an  interview  with  her  mother, — he  remained  at  Paris,  and  hur- 
ried on  all  the  requisite  preparations.  He  sent  to  Douce,  who 
came  in  person,  with  the  deeds  necessary  for  the  transfer  of  the 
money  for  the  purchase  of  Lisle  Court,  which  was  now  to  be 
immediately  completed.  The  money  was  to  be  lodged  in  Mr. 
Douce's  bank  till  the  lawyers  had  concluded  their  operations ; 


3o8  Alice  ;   or,  the  mysteries. 

and  in  a  few  weeks,  when  Evelyn  had  attained  the  allotted  age, 
Vargrave  trusted  to  see  himself  lord  alike  of  the  betrothed  bride, 
and  the  hereditary  lands,  of  the  crushed  Maltravers.  He  re- 
frained from  stating  to  Evelyn  who  was  the  present  proprietor 
of  the  estate  to  become  hers  ;  he  foresaw  all  the  objections  she 
would  form  ;  and,  indeed,  she  was  unable  to  think,  to  talk,  of 
such  matters.  One  favor  she  had  asked,  and  it  had  been  granted  ; 
that  she  was  to  be  left  unmolested  to  her  solitude,  till  the  fatal 
day.  Shut  up  in  her  lonely  room,  condemned  not  to  confide 
her  thoughts, — to  seek  for  sympathy  even  in  her  mother, — the 
poor  girl  in  vain  endeavored  to  keep  up  to  the  tenor  of  her  first 
enthusiasm,  and  reconcile  herself  to  a  step  which,  however,  she 
was  heroine  enough  not  to  retract  or  to  repent,  even  while  she 
recoiled  from  its  contemplation. 

Lady  Doltimore,  amazed  at  what  had  passed  ;  at  the  flight  of 
Maltravers  ;  the  success  of  Lumley — unable  to  account  for  it, 
to  extort  explanation  from  Vargrave  or  from  Evelyn,  was  dis- 
tracted by  the  fear  of  some  villanous  deceit  which  she  could 
not  fathom.  To  escape  herself,  she  plunged  yet  more  eagerly 
into  the  gay  vortex.  Vargrave,  suspicious,  and  fearful  of  trust- 
ing to  what  she  might  say  in  her  nervous  and  excited  temper, 
if  removed  from  his  watchful  eye,  deemed  himself  compelled  to 
hover  round  her.  His  manner,  his  conduct,  were  most  guarded  : 
but  Caroline  herself,  jealous,  irritated,  unsettled,  evinced  at 
times  a  right  both  to  familiarity  and  anger,  which  drew  upon 
her  and  himself  the  sly  vigilance  of  slander.  Meanwhile  Lord 
Doltimore,  though  too  cold  and  proud  openly  to  notice  what 
passed  around  him,  seemed  disturbed  and  anxious.  His  man- 
ner to  Vargrave  was  distant ;  he  shunned  all  tele-a-tetes  with  his 
wife.  Little,  however,  of  this  did  Lumley  heed — a  few  weeks 
more,  and  all  would  be  well  and  safe.  Vargrave  did  not  pub- 
lish his  engagement  with  Evelyn  :  he  sought  carefully  to  con- 
ceal it  till  the  very  day  was  near  at  hand  :  but  it  was  whispered 
abroad ;  some  laughed — some  believed.  Evelyn  herself  was 
seen  nowhere.  De  Montaigne  had,  at  first,  been  indignantly 
incredulous  at  the  report  that  Maltravers  had  broken  off  a  con- 
nection he  had  so  desired,  from  a  motive  so  weak  and  unworthy 
as  that  of  mere  family  pride.  A  letter  from  Maltravers,  who 
confided  to  him  and  Vargrave  alone  the  secret  of  his  retreat, 
reluctantly  convinced  him  that  the  wise  are  but  pompous  fools ! 
He  was  angry  and  disgusted  ;  and  still  more  so,  when  Valerie 
and  Teresa  (for  female  friends  stand  by  us  right  or  wrong) 
hinted  at  excuses  ;  or  surmised  that  other  causes  lurked  behind 
the  one  alleged.     But  his  thoughts  were  much  drawn  from  thif 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  309 

subject  by  increasing  anxiety  for  Cesarini,  whose  abode  and 
fate  still  remained  an  alarming  mystery. 

It  so  happened  that  Lord  Doltimore,  who  had  always  had  a 
taste  for  the  Antique,  and  who  was  greatly  displeased  with  his 
own  family-seat,  because  it  was  comfortable  and  modern,  fell, 
from  ennui,  into  a  habit,  fashionable  enough  at  Paris,  of  buying 
curiosities  and  cabinets — high-back  chairs,  and  oak-carvings  ; 
and  with  this  habit  returned  the  desire  and  the  affection  for 
Burleigh.  Understanding  from  Lumley  that  Maltravers  had 
probably  left  his  native  land  for  ever,  he  imagined  it  extremely 
probable  that  the  latter  would  now  consent  to  the  sale,  and  he 
begged  Vargrave  to  forward  a  letter  from  him  to  that  effect. 

Vargrave  made  some  excuse,  for  he  felt  that  nothing  could 
be  more  indelicate  than  such  an  application,  forwarded  through 
his  hands,  at  such  a  time  ;  and  Doltimore,  who  had  accidentally 
heard  De  Montaigne  confess  that  he  knew  the  address  of  Mal- 
travers, quietly  sent  his  letter  to  the  Frenchman,  and,  without 
mentioning  its  contents,  begged  him  to  forward  it.  De  Mon- 
taigne did  so.  Now  it  is  very  strange  how  slight  men  and  slight 
incidents  bear  on  the  great  events  of  life.  But  that  simple  let- 
ter was  instrumental  to  a  new  revolution  in  the  strange  history 
of  Maltravers. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  Quid  frustra  simulacra  fugacia  captas  ? — 
Quod  petis  est  nusquam."* — Ovid,  Met,  iii.  432. 

To  no  clime  dedicated  to  the  indulgence  of  majestic  griefs 
or  to  the  soft  melancholy  of  regret — not  to  thy  glaciers,  or  thy 
dark  blue  lakes,  beautiful  Switzerland,  Mother  of  many  exiles — 
nor  to  thy  fairer  earth,  and  gentler  Heaven,  sweet  Italy — fled 
the  agonized  Maltravers.  Once,  in  his  wanderings,  he  had 
chanced  to  pass  by  a  landscape  so  steeped  in  sullen  and  deso- 
late [;loom,  that  it  had  made  a  powerful  and  uneffaced  impres- 
sion upon  his  mind  :  it  was  amidst  those  swamps  and  morasses 
that  formerly  surrounded  the  castle  of  Gil  de  Retz,  the  ambi- 
tious Lord,  the  dreaded  Necromancer,  who  perished  at  the 
stake,  after  a  career  of  such  power  and  splendor  as  seemed 
almost  to  justify  the  dark  belief  in  his  preternatural  agencies.f 

Here,  in  a  lonely  and  wretched  inn,  remote  from  other  habi- 
tations, Maltravers  fixed  himself,     in  gentler  griefs,  there  was 

*  Why,  in  vain,  do  you  catch  at  fleeting  shadows  ?     That  which  you  seek  is  nowhere, 
t  See,  for  a  description  of   the   scenery,  and    the  fate  of  De  Retz,  the  high-wrought  and 
glowing  romance  by  Mr.  Ritchie,  called  The  Magician, 


3IO  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

a  sort  of  luxury  in  bodily  discomfort :  in  his  inexorable  and  un- 
mitigated anguish,  bodily  discomfort  was  not  felt.  There  is  a 
kind  of  magnetism  in  extreme  woe,  by  which  the  body  itself 
seems  laid  asleep,  and  knows  no  distinction  between  the  bed  of 
Damien  and  the  rose-couch  of  the  Sybarite.  He  left  his  car- 
riage and  servants  at  a  post-house  some  miles  distant.  He  came 
to  this  dreary  abode  alone  ;  and  in  that  wintry  season,  and  that 
most  disconsolate  scene,  his  gloomy  soul  found  sometliing  con- 
genial, something  that  did  not  mock  him,  in  the  frowns  of  the  hag- 
gard and  dismal  nature.  Vain  would  it  be  to  describe  what  he  then 
felt — what  he  then  endured.  Suffice  it  that,through  all, the  diviner 
strength  of  man  was  not  wholly  crushed  ;  and  that  daily,  nightly, 
hourly,  he  prayed  to  the  Great  Comforter  to  assist  him  in  wrest- 
ling against  a  guilty  love.  No  man  struggles  so  honestly,  so 
ardently  as  he  did,  utterly  in  vain  ;  for  in  us  all,  if  we  would 
but  cherish  it,  there  is  a  spirit  that  must  rise  at  last — a  crowned, 
if  bleeding  conqueror — over  Fate  and  all  the  Demons  ! 

One  day  after  a  prolonged  silence  from  Vargrave,  whose 
letters  all  breathed  comfort  and  assurance  in  Evelyn's  progres- 
sive recovery  of  spirit  and  hope,  his  messenger  returned  from 
the  post-town  with  a  letter  in  the  hand  of  De  Montaigne,  It 
contained,  in  a  blank  envelope  (De  Montaigne's  silence  told 
him  how  much  he  had  lost  in  the  esteem  of  his  friend),  the 
communication  of  Lord  Doltimore.     It  ran  thus  : 

"  My  Dear  Sir:  As  I  hear  that  your  plans  are  likely  to  make 
you  long  resident  on  the  Continent,  may  I  again  inquire  if  you 
would  be  induced  to  dispose  of  Burleigh  ?  I  am  willing  to 
give  more  than  its  real  value,  and  would  raise  a  mortgage  on 
my  own  property  sufficient  to  pay  off  at  once,  the  w'hole  pur- 
chase-money. Perhaps  you  may  be  more  induced  to  the  sale 
from  the  circumstance  of  having  an  example  in  the  head  of 
your  family  :  Colonel  Maltravers,  as  I  learn  through  Lord 
Vargrave,  having  resolved  to  dispose  of  Lisle  Court.  Waiting 
your  answer,  I  am,  dear  sir.     Truly  yours, 

"  Doltimore," 

"  Ay,"  said  Maltravers  bitterly,  crushing  the  letter  in  his 
hand  ;  "  let  our  name  be  blotted  out  from  the  land,  and  our 
hearths  pass  to  the  stranger.  How  could  I  ever  visit  again  the 
place  where  I  first  saw  her  2  " 

He  resolved  at  once — he  would  write  to  England,  and  place 
the  matter  in  the  hands  of  agents.  This  was  but  a  short-lived 
diversion  to  his  thoughts,  and  their  cloudy  darkness  soon 
gathered  round  him  again. 


kUCt;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  3tl 

What  I  am  now  about  to  relate  may  appear,  to  a  hasty  criti- 
cism, to  savor  of  the  Supernatural  ;  but  it  is  easily  accounted 
for  by  ordinary  agencies,  and  it  is  strictly  to  the  letter  of  the 
truth. 

In  his  sleep  that  night,  a  dream  appeared  to  Maltravers.  He 
thought  he  was  alone  in  the  old  library  at  Burleigh,  and  gazing 
on  the  portrait  of  his  mother  ;  as  he  so  gazed,  he  fancied  that 
a  cold  and  awful  tremor  seized  upon  him — that  he  in  vain  en- 
deavored to  withdraw  his  eyes  from  the  canvas — his  sight  was 
chained  there  by  an  irresistible  spell.  Then  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  portrait  gradually  changed  ;  the  features  the  same,  but 
the  bloom  vanished  into  a  white  and  ghastly  hue  ;  the  colors 
of  the  dress  faded,  their  fashion  grew  more  large  and  flowing, 
but  heavy  and  rigid,  as  if  cut  in  stone — the  robes  of  the  grave. 
But  on  the  face  tliere  was  a  soft  and  melancholy  smile,  that 
took  from  its  livid  aspect  the  natural  horror :  the  lips  moved, 
and,  it  seemed  as  if  without  a  sound — the  released  soul  spoke 
to  that  which  the  earth  yet  owned. 

*'  Return,"  it  said,  "  to  thy  native  land,  and  thine  own  home. 
Leave  not  the  last  relic  of  her  who  bore  and  yet  watches  over 
thee  to  stranger  hands.  Thy  good  Angel  shall  meet  thee  at 
thy  hearth  !  " 

The  Voice  ceased.  With  a  violent  effort  Maltravers  broke 
the  spell  that  had  forbidden  his  utterance.  He  called  aloud, 
and  the  dream  vanished  :  he  was  broad  awake — his  hair  erect — 
the  cold  dews  on  his  brow.  The  pallet,  rather  than  bed  on 
which  he  lay,  was  opposite  the  window,  and  the  wintry  moon- 
light streamed  wan  and  spectral  into  the  cheerless  room.  But 
between  himself  and  the  light  there  seemed  to  stand  a  shape — 
a  shadow — that  into  which  the  portrait  had  changed  in  his 
dream — that  which  had  accosted  and  chilled  his  soul.  He 
sprang  forward — "  My  mother !  even  in  the  grave  canst  thou 
bless  thy  wretched  son  !  Oh,  leave  me  not — say  that  thou — " 
The  delusion  vanished,  and  Maltravers  fell  back  insensible. 

It  was  long  in  vain,  when,  in  the  healthful  light  of  day,  he 
revolved  this  memorable  dream,  that  Maltravers  sought  to  con- 
vince himself  that  dreams  need  no  ministers  from  heaven  or  hell 
to  bring  the  gliding  falsehoods  along  the  paths  of  sleep  ;  that 
the  effect  of  that  dream  itself,  on  his  shattered  nerves,  his  ex- 
cited fancy,  was  the  real  and  sole  raiser  of  the  spectre  he  had 
thought  to  behold  on  waking.  Long  was  it  before  his  judg- 
ment could  gain  the  victory,  and  reason  disown  the  empire  of  a 
turbulent  imagination  ;  and,  even  when  at  length  reluctantly 
convinced,  the  dream  still  haunted  him,  and  he  could  not  shake 


312  ALICE;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 

it  from  his  breast.  He  longed  anxiously  for  the  next  night  ; 
it  came,  but  it  brought  neither  dreams  nor  sleep,  and  the  raiu 
beat,  and  the  winds  howled,  against  the  casement.  Another 
night,  and  the  moon  was  again  bright  ;  and  he  fell  in  a  deep 
sleep  ;  no  visions  disturbed  or  hallowed  it.  He  woke  ashamed 
of  his  own  expectation.  But  the  event,  such  as  it  was,  by  giving 
a  new  turn  to  his  thoughts,  had  roused  and  relieved  his  spirit, 
and  Misery  sate  upon  him  with  a  lighter  load.  Perhaps,  too, 
to  that  still  haunting  recollection  was  mainly  owing  a  change 
in  his  former  purpose.  He  would  still  sell  the  old  hall ;  but 
he  would  first  return  and  remove  that  holy  portrait,  with  i)ious 
hands  ;  he  would  garner  up  and  save  all  that  had  belonged  to 
her  whose  death  had  been  his  birth.  Ah  !  never  had  she 
known  for  what  trials  the  infant  had  been  reserved  ! 


CHAPTER   III. 

♦      »      *     "  The  weary  hours  steal  on, 
And  flakey  darkness  breaks." — Richard  III. 

Once  more,  suddenly  and  unlocked  for,  the  Lord  of  Bur- 
leigh appeared  at  the  gates  of  his  deserted  hall ;  and  again  the 
old  housekeeper  and  her  satellites  were  thrown  into  dismay  and 
consternation.  Amidst  blank  and  welcomeless  faces,  Mal- 
travers  passed  into  his  study ;  and  as  soon  as  the  logs  burnt 
and  the  bustle  was  over,  and  he  was  left  alone,  he  took  up  the 
light  and  passed  into  the  adjoining  library.  It  was  then  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  the  air  of  the  room  felt  damp  and 
chill,  and  the  light  but  faintly  struggled  against  the  mournful 
gloom  of  the  dark  book-lined  walls  and  sombre  tapestry.  He 
placed  the  candle  on  the  table,  and,  drawing  aside  the  curtain 
that  veiled  the  portrait,  gazed  with  deep  emotion,  not  unmixed 
with  awe,  upon  the  beautiful  face  whose  eyes  seemed  fixed 
upon  him  with  mournful  sweetness.  There  is  something  mys- 
tical about  those  painted  ghosts  of  ourselves  that  survive  our 
very  dust !  Who,  gazing  upon  them  long  and  wistfully,  does 
not  half  fancy  that  they  seem  not  insensible  to  his  gaze,  as  if 
we  looked  our  own  life  into  them,  and  the  eyes  that  followed 
us  where  we  moved  were  animated  by  a  stranger  art  than  the 
mere  trick  of  the  limner's  colors. 

With  folded  arms,  rapt  and  motionless,  Maltravers  con- 
templated the  form  that,  by  the  upward  rays  of  the  flickering 
light,  seemed  to  bend  down  towards  the  desolate  son.     How 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES,  3*;^ 

had  he  ever  loved  the  memory  of  his  mother  ! — how  often  in 
his  cliildish  years  had  he  stolen  away,  and  shed  wild  tears  for 
the  loss  of  that  dearest  of  earthly  ties,  never  to  be  compen- 
sated, never  to  be  replaced  ! — how  had  he  respected — how 
sympathized  with  the  very  repugnance  which  his  father  had  at 
first  testified  towards  him,  as  the  innocent  cause  of  her  un- 
timely death  !  He  had  never  seen  her — never  felt  her  passion- 
ate kiss ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him,  as  he  gazed,  as  if  he  had 
known  her  for  years.  That  strange  kind  of  inner  and  spiritual 
memory  which  often  recalls  to  us  places  and  persons  we  have 
never  seen  before,  and  which  Platonists  would  resolve  to  the 
unquenched  and  struggling  consciousness  of  a  former  life, 
stirred  within  him,  and  seemed  to  whisper,  "you  were  united 
in  the  old  time."  "  Yes  !  "  he  said,  half  aloud,  "  we  will  never 
part  again.  Blessed  be  the  delusion  of  the  dream  that  recalled 
to  my  heart  the  remembrance  of  thee,  which  at  least  I  can 
cherish  without  a  sin.  '  My  good  angel  shall  meet  me  at  my 
hearth  ! '  So  didst  thou  say  in  the  solemn  vision.  Ah,  does 
thy  soul  watch  over  me  still?  How  long  shall  it  be  before  the 
barrier  is  broken — how  long  before  we  meet,  but  not  in 
dreams  !  " 

The  door  opened — the  housekeeper  looked  in — "  I  beg  par- 
don, sir,  but  I  thought  your  honor  would  excuse  the  liberty, 
though  I  know  it  is  very  bold  to — " 

"  What  is  the  matter — what  do  you  want  ? " 

"Why,  sir,  poor  Mrs.  Elton  is  dying — they  say  she  cannot 
get  over  the  night ;  and  as  the  carriage  drove  by  the  cottage 
window,  the  nurse  told  her  that  the  squire  was  returned — and 
she  has  sent  up  the  nurse  to  entreat  to  see  your  honor  before 
she  dies.  I  am  sure  I  was  most  loth  to  disturb  you,  sir,  with 
such  a  message  ;  and  says  I,  the  squire  has  only  just  come  off 
a  journey,  and — " 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Elton  ?  " 

"  Don't  your  honor  remember  the  poor  woman  that  was  run 
over,  and  you  were  so  good  to,  and  brought  into  the  house  the 
day  Miss  Cameron — " 

"I  remember — say  I  will  be  with  her  in  a  few  minutes. 
About  to  die  !  "  muttered  Maltravers  ;  "  she  is  to  be  envied — 
the  prisoner  is  let  loose — the  bark  leaves  the  desert  isle  ! " 

He  took  his  hat  and  walked  across  the  park,  dimly  lighted 
by  the  stars,  to  the  cottage  of  the  sufferer.  He  reached  her 
bedside,  and  took  her  hand  kindly.  She  seemed  to  rally  at 
the  sight  of  him — the  nurse  was  dismissed — they  were  left  alone. 

Before  morning,  the  spirit  had  left  that  humble  clay  ;  and 


314  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  mists  of  dawn  were  heavy  on  the  grass  as  Maltravers  re« 
turned  home.  There  were  then  on  his  countenance  the  trace? 
of  recent  and  strong  emotion,  and  his  step  was  elastic,  and  his 
cheek  flushed.  Hope  once  more  broke  within  him,  but  mingled 
with  doubt,  and  faintly  combated  by  reason.  In  another  houi 
Maltravers  was  on  his  was  to  Brook-Green.  Impatient,  restless, 
fevered,  he  urged  on  the  horses — he  sowed  the  road  with  gold, 
and  at  length  the  wheels  stopped  before  the  door  of  the  village 
inn.  He  descended,  asked  the  way  to  the  curate's  house  ;  and 
crossing  the  burial-ground,  and  passing  under  the  shadow  of  the 
old  yew-tree,  entered  Aubrey's  garden.  The  curate  was  a.t 
home  ;  and  the  conference  that  ensued  was  of  deep  and  breath- 
less mterest  to  the  visitor. 

It  is  now  time  to  place  before  the  reader,  in  due  order  and 
connection,  the  incidents  of  that  story,  the  knowledge  of  whiclv 
at  that  period,  broke  in  detached  and  fragmentary  portions  on 
Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  I  canna  chuse,  but  ever  will 
Be  luving  to  thy  father  stil, 
Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde. 
My  luve  with  him  maun  stil  abyde  ; 
In  well  or  wae,  whair-eir  he  gae. 
Mine  heart  can  neir  depart  him  frae." 

— Lady  Anne  Bothwell's  Lament. 

It  may  be  remembered,  that  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  con- 
tinuation of  the  history  of  Maltravers  it  was  stated  that  Aubrey 
had  in  early  life  met  with  the  common  lot  of  a  disappointed 
affection.  Eleanor  Westbrook,  a  young  woman  of  his  own 
humble  rank,  had  won,  and  seemed  to  return,  his  love  ;  but  of 
that  love  she  was  not  worthy.  Vain,  volatile,  and  ambitions, 
she  forsook  the  poor  student  for  a  more  brilliant  marriage.  She 
accepted  the  hand  of  a  merchant,  who  was  caught  by  her  beauty, 
and  who  had  the  reputation  of  great  wealth.  They  settled  ii? 
London,  and  Aubrey  lost  all  traces  of  her.  She  gave  birth  \.Q 
an  only  daughter  :  and  when  that  child  had  attained  her  four- 
teenth year,  her  husband  suddenly,  and  seemingly  without  cause- 
put  an  end  to  his  existence.  The  cause,  however,  was  appa- 
rent before  he  was  laid  in  his  grave.  He  was  involved  fa> 
beyond  his  fortune — he  had  died  to  escape  beggary  and  a  gaol 
A  small  annuity,  not  exceeding  one  hundred  pounds,  had  been 
secured  on  the  widow.     On  this  income  she  retired  with  he^ 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  ^le 

child  into  the  country  ;  and  chance,  the  vicinity  of  some  dis- 
tant connections,  and  the  cheapness  of  the  place,  concurred  to 

fix  her  residence  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  of  C .     Cliar- 

acters  that  in  youth  liave  been  most  volatile  and  most  worldly, 
often  when  bowed  down  and  dejected  by  the  adversity  which 
they  are  not  fitted  to  encounter,  become  the  most  morbidly  de- 
vout :  they  ever  require  an  excitement,  and  when  earth  denies, 
they  seek  it  impatiently  from  Heaven. 

This  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Westbrook  ;  and  this  new  turn  of 
mind  brought  her  naturally  into  contact  with  the  principal  saint 
of  the  neighborhood,  Mr.  Richard  Templeton.  We  have  seen 
that  that  gentleman  was  not  happy  in  his  first  marriage ;  death 
had  not  then  annulled  the  bond.  He  was  of  an  ardent  and 
sensual  temperament,  and  quietly,  under  the  broad  cloak  of  his 
doctrines,  he  indulged  his  constitutional  tendencies.  Perhaps 
in  this  respect  he  was  not  worse  than  nine  men  out  of  ten.  But 
then  he  professed  to  be  better  than  nine  hundred  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  million  !  To  a  fault  of 
temperament  was  added  the  craft  of  hypocrisy,  and  the  vulgar 
error  became  a  dangerous  vice.  Upon  Mary  Westbrook,  the 
widow's  daughter,  he  gazed  with  eyes  that  were  far  from  being 
the  eyes  of  the  spirit.  Even  at  the  age  of  fourteen  she  charmed 
him — but  when,  after  watching  her  ripening  beauty  expand, 
three  years  were  added  to  that  age,  Mr.  Templeton  was  most 
deeply  in  love.  Mary  was  indeed  lovely — her  disposition  nat- 
urally good  and  gentle,  but  her  education  worse  than  neglected. 
To  the  frivolities  and  meannesses  of  a  second-rate  fashion,  in- 
culcated into  her  till  her  father's  death,  had  now  succeeded  the 
quackeries,  the  slavish  subservience,  the  intolerant  bigotries,  of 
a  transcendental  superstition.  In  a  change  so  abrupt  and  vio- 
lent, the  whole  character  of  the  poor  girl  was  shaken  :  her  prin- 
ciples unsettled,  vague  and  unformed,  and  naturally  of  mediocre 
and  even  feeble  intellect,  she  clung  to  the  first  plank  held  out 
to  her  in  "that  wide  sea  of  wax"  in  which  she  "halted." 
Early  taught  to  place  the  most  implicit  faith  in  the  dictates  of 
Mr.  Templeton — fastening  her  belief  round  him  as  the  vine 
winds  its  tendrils  round  the  oak — yielding  to  his  ascendancy, 
and  pleased  with  his  fostering  and  almost  caressing  manner — 
no  confessor  in  Papal  Italy  ever  was  more  dangerous  to  village 
virtue  than  Richard  Templeton  (who  deemed  himself  the  arche- 
type of  the  only  pure  Protestantism)  to  the  morals  and  heart  of 
Mary  Westbrook. 

Mrs.  Westbrook,  whose  constitution  had  been  prematurely 
broken  by  long  participation  in  the  excesses  of  London  dissi- 


3l6  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

patlon,  and  by  the  reverse  of  fortune  which  still  preyed  upon  a 
spirit  it  had  rather  soured  than  humbled,  died  when  Mary  was 
eighteen.  Templeton  became  the  sole  friend,  comforter,  and 
supporter  of  the  daughter. 

In  an  evil  hour  (let  us  trust  not  from  premeditated  villany) — 
an  hour  when  the  heart  of  one  was  softened  by  grief  and  grati- 
tude, and  the  conscience  of  the  other  laid  asleep  by  passion, 
the  virtue  of  Mary  Westbrook  was  betrayed.  Her  sorrow  and 
remorse — his  own  fears  of  detection  and  awakened  self-reproacli, 
occasioned  Templeton  the  most  anxious  and  poignant  regret. 
There  had  been  a  young  woman  in  Mrs.  Westbrook's  service, 
who  had  left  it  a  short  time  before  the  widow  died,  in  conse- 
quence of  her  marriage.  Her  husband  ill-used  her  ;  and  glad 
to  escape  from  him  and  prove  her  gratitude  to  her  employer's 
daughter,  of  whom  she  had  been  extremely  fond,  she  had  re- 
turned to  Miss  Westbrook  after  the  funeral  of  the  mother.  The 
name  of  this  woman  was  Sarah  Miles.  Templeton  saw  that 
Sarah  more  than  suspected  his  connection  with  Mary — it  was 
necessary  to  make  a  confidant — he  selected  her.  Miss  West- 
brook was  removed  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  and  Tem- 
pleton visited  her  cautiously  and  rarely.  Four  months  after- 
v/ards,  Mrs.  Templeton  died,  and  the  husband  was  free  to  re- 
pair his  wrong.  Oh  !  how  he  then  repented  of  what  had 
passed — but  four  months'  delay  and  all  this  sin  and  sorrow 
might  have  been  saved  !  He  was  now  racked  with  perplexity 
and  doubt  :  his  unfortunate  victim  was  advanced  in  her  preg- 
nancy. It  was  necessary,  if  he  wished  his  child  to  be  legitimate 
— still  more  if  he  wished  to  preserve  the  honor  of  its  mother — 
that  he  should  not  hesitate  long  in  the  reparation  to  which  duty 
and  conscience  urged  him.  But  on  the  other  hand — he,  the 
saint — the  oracle — the  immaculate  example  for  all  forms,  pro- 
prieties, and  decorums,  to  scandalize  the  world  by  so  rapid  and 
premature  a  hymen — 

"  Ere  yet  the  salt  of  mo3t  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  his  galled  eyes. 
To  marry — " 

No  ! — he  could  not  brave  the  sneer  of  the  gossips — the  tri- 
umph of  his  foes — the  dejection  of  his  disciples,  by  so  rank  and 
rash  a  folly.  But  still  Mary  pined  so,  he  feared  for  her  health — 
for  his  own  unborn  offspring.  There  was  a  middle  path — a 
compromise  between  duty  and  the  world  :  he  grasped  at  it  as 
most  men  similarly  situated  would  have  done — they  were  mar- 
ried, but  privately,  and  under  feigned  names  :   the  secret  was 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  317 

kept  close.  Sarah  Miles  was  the  only  witness  acquainted  with 
tlie  real  condition  and  names  of  the  parties. 

Reconciled  to  herself,  the  bride  recovered  health  and  spirits — 
Templeton  formed  the  most  sanguine  hopes.  He  resolved,  as 
soon  as  the  confinement  was  over,  to  go  abroad — Mary  should 
follow — in  a  foreign  land  they  should  be  publicly  married — they 
would  remain  some  years  on  the  Continent — when  he  returned, 
his  child's  age  could  be  put  back  a  year.  Oh,  nothing  could  be 
more  clear  and  easy  ! 

Death  shivered  into  atoms  all  the  plans  of  Mr.  Templeton — 
Mary  suffered  most  severely  in  childbirth,  and  died  a  few  weeks 
afterwards.  Templeton,  at  first,  was  inconsolable,  but  worldly 
thoughts  were  great  comforters.  He  had  done  all  that  con- 
science could  do  to  atone  a  sin,  and  he  was  freed  from  a  most 
embarrassing  dilemma,  and  from  a  temporary  banishment  ut- 
terly uncongenial  and  unpalatable  to  his  habits  and  ideas.  But 
now  he  had  a  child — a  legitimate  child — successor  to  his  name, 
his  wealth — a  first-born  child — the  only  one  ever  sprung  from 
him — the  prop  and  hope  of  advancing  years  !  On  this  child  he 
doted,  with  all  that  paternal  passion  which  the  hardest  and  cold- 
est men  often  feel  the  most  for  their  own  fiesh  and  blood — for 
fatherly  love  is  sometimes  but  a  transfer  of  self-love  from  one 
fund  to  another. 

Yet  this  child — this  darling  that  he  longed  to  show  to  the 
world — it  was  absolutely  necessary,  for  the  present,  that  he 
sJiould  conceal  and  disown.  It  had  happened  that  Sarah's  hus- 
band died  of  his  own  excesses  a  few  weeks  before  the  birth  of 
Templeton's  child,  she  having  herself  just  recovered  from  her 
confinement, — Sarah  was  therefore  free  for  ever  from  her  hus- 
band's vigilance  and  control.  To  her  care  the  destined  heiress 
was  committed,  and  her  own  child  put  out  to  nurse.  And  this 
was  the  woman  and  this  the  child  who  had  excited  so  much  be- 
nevolent curiosity  in  the  breasts  of  the  worthy  clergyman  and 

the  three*  old  maids  of  C .     Alarmed  at  Sarah's  account  of 

the  scrutiny  of  the  parson,  and  at  his  own  rencontre  with  that 
hawk-eyed  pastor,  Templeton  lost  no  time  in  changiiig  the  abode 
of  the  nurse — and  to  her  new  residence  had  that  banker  bent  his 
way,  with  rod  and  angle,  on  that  evening  which  witnessed  his 
adventure  with  Luke  Darvil.f  When  Mr.  Templeton  first  met 
Alice,  his  own  child  was  only  about  thirteen  or  fourteen  months 
old — but  little  older  than  Alice's.  If  the  beauty  of  Mrs,  Leslie's 
frotig^e  first  excited  his  coarser  nature,  her  maternal  tenderness, 

*  Sec  Ernest  Maltravers,  Part  I.,  Book  iv.  p.  135, 
t  IbicJ,,  Part  I.,  Boojc  iv.,  p.  150, 


3l8  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

her  anxious  care  for  her  little  one,  struck  a  congenial  chord  in 
the  father's  heart.  It  connected  him  with  her  by  a  mute  and 
unceasing  sympathy,  Templeton  had  felt  so  deeply  the  alarm 
and  pain  of  illicit  love — he  had  been  (as  he  profanely  believed) 
saved  from  the  brink  of  public  shame  by  so  signal  an  interfer- 
ence of  grace,  that  he  resolved  no  more  to  hazard  his  good  name 
and  his  peace  of  mind  upon  such  perilous  rocks.  The  dearest 
desire  at  his  heart  was  to  have  his  daughter  under  his  roof — to 
fondle,  to  play  with  her — to  watch  her  growth — to  win  her  af- 
fection. This,  at  present,  seemed  impossible.  But  if  he  were 
to  marry — marry  a  widow,  to  whom  he  might  confide  all,  or  a 
portion  of,  the  truth — if  that  child  could  be  passed  off  as  hers — 
ah,  that  was  the  best  plan  !  And  Templeton  wanted  a  wife  ! 
Years  were  creeping  on  him,  and  the  day  would  come  when  a 
wife  would  be  useful  as  a  nurse.  But  Alice  was  supposed  to 
be  a  widow  ;  and  Alice  was  so  meek,  so  docile,  so  motherly.     If 

she  could  be  induced  to  remove  from  C ,  either  part  with 

her  own  child  or  call  it  her  niece — and  adopt  his.  Such,  from 
time  to  time,  were  Templeton's  thoughts,  as  he  visited  Alice,  and 
found,  with  every  visit,  fresh  evidence  of  her  tender  and  beau- 
tiful disposition — such  the  objects  which,  in  the  First  Part  of 
this  work,  we  intimated  were  different  from  those  of  mere  ad- 
miration for  her  beauty.*  But  again,  worldly  doubts  and  fears — 
the  dislike  of  so  unsuitable  an  alliance — the  worse  than  low- 
ness  of  Alice's  origin — the  dread  of  discovery  for  her  early 
error — held  him  back,  wavering  and  irresolute.  To  say  the 
truth,  too,  her  innocence  and  purity  of  thought  kept  him  at  a 
certain  distance.  He  was  acute  enough  to  see  that  he — even 
he,  the  great  Richard  Templeton,  might  be  refused  by  the  faith- 
ful Alice. 

At  last  Darvil  was  dead — he  breathed  more  freely — he  re- 
volved more  seriously  his  projects;  and,  at  this  time,  Sarah, 
wooed  by  her  first  lover,  wished  to  marry  again  ;  his  secret 
would  pass  from  her  breast  to  her  second  husband's,  and  thence 
how  far  would  it  travel  ?  Added  to  this,  Sarah's  conscience  grew 
uneasy — the  brand  ought  to  be  effaced  from  the  memory  of  the 
dead  mother — the  legitimacy  of  the  child  proclaimed ;  she  be- 
came importunate — she  wearied  and  she  alarmed  the  pious  man. 
He  therefore  resolved  to  rid  himself  of  the  only  witness  to  his 
marriage,  whose  testimony  he  had  cause  to  fear — of  the  pres- 

*  "  Our  banker  always  seemed  more  struck  by  Alice's  moral  feelings  than  even  by  her 
physical  beauty.     Her  love  for  her  child,  for  instance,  impressed  him  powerfully,"  etc. — 

His  feelings  altogether  for  Alice,  the  designs  he  entertained  towards  her,  were  of  a  very 
complicated  nature,  and  it  will  be  long,  perhaps,  before  the  reader  can  thoroughly  corapr^" 
b9n4  rt?"";""??^  ^rnest  ^aftrnv^n^  f  aft  I.,  Book  iv.,  p.  i,jO, 


ALtCfe  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  jf  0 

ence  of  the  only  one  acquainted  with  his  sin,  and  the  real  name 
of  the  husband  of  Mary  VVestbrook,  He  consented  to  Sarah's 
marriage  with  William  Elton,  and  offered  a  liberal  dowry  on 
the  condition  that  she  should  yield  to  the  wish  of  Elton  himself, 
an  adventurous  young  man,  who  desired  to  try  his  fortunes  in 
the  New  World.     His  daughter  he  must  remove  elsewhere. 

While  this  was  going  on,  Alice's  child,  long  delicate  and  droop- 
ing, became  seriously  ill.  Symptoms  of  decline  appeared — the 
physician  recommmended  a  milder  air,  and  Devonshire  was 
suggested.  Nothing  could  equal  the  generous,  the  fatherly 
kindness  which  Tenipleton  evinced  on  this  most  painful  occa- 
sion. He  insisted  on  providing  Alice  with  the  means  to  under- 
take the  journey  with  ease  and  comfort;  and  poor  Alice,  with  a 
heart  heavy  with  gratitude  and  sorrow,  consented  for  her  child's 
sake  to  all  he  offered. 

Now  the  banker  began  to  perceive  that  all  his  hopes  and  wishes 
were  in  good  train.  He  foresaw  that  the  child  of  Alice  was 
doomed  ! — that  was  one  obstacle  out  of  the  way,  Alice  herself 
was  to  be  removed  from  the  sphere  of  her  humble  calling.  In 
a  distant  county  she  might  appear  of  better  station,  and  under 
another  name.  Conformably  to  these  views,  he  suggested  to  her 
that,  in  proportion  to  the  seeming  wealth  and  respectability  of 
patients,  did  doctors  attend  to  their  complaints.  He  proposed 
that  Alice  should  depart  privately  to  a  town  many  miles  off — 
that  there  he  would  provide  for  her  a  carriage,  and  engage  a 
servant — that  he  would  do  this  for  her  as  a  relation — and  that 
she  should  take  that  relation's  name.  To  this,  Alice,  wrapt  in 
her  child,  and  submissive  to  all  that  might  be  for  the  child's 
benefit,  passively  consented.  It  was  arranged  then  as  proposed; 
and  under  the  nane  of  Cameron,  which,  as  at  once  a  common 
yet  a  well-sounding  name,  occurred  to  his  invention,  Alice  de- 
parted with  her  sick  charge  and  a  female  attendant  (who  knew 
nothing  of  her  previous  calling  or  story),  on  the  road  to  Devon- 
shire, Templeton  himself  resolved  to  follow  her  thither  in  a 
few  days ;  and  it  was  fixed  that  they  should  meet  at  Exeter. 

It  was  on  this  melancholy  journey  that  occurred  that  mem- 
orable day  when  Alice  once  more  beheld  Maltravers ;  and,  as 
she  believed,  uttering  the  vows  of  love  to  another.*  The  indis- 
position of  her  child  had  delayed  her  some  hours  at  the  inn  : 
the  poor  sufferer  had  fallen  asleep  ;  and  Alice  had  stolen  from 
its  couch  for  a  little  while,  when  her  eyes  rested  on  the  father. 
Oh,  how  then  she  longed, — she  burned  to  tell  him  of  the  new 
sanctity,  that,  by  a  human  life,  had  been  added  to  their  early 

♦  See  Ernett  Maltravers.  Part  I.,  Book  v.,  p.  i8x. 


J26  ALtCE  ;    OR,  "THE    HiYSTERli;^. 

love  !  And  when,  crushed  and  sick  at  heart,  she  turned  away, 
and  believed  herself  forgotten  and  replaced,  it  was  the  pride  of 
the  mother,  rather  than  of  the  mistress,  that  supported  her.  She, 
meek  creature,  felt  not  the  injury  to  herself ;  but  Ms  child  :  the 
sufferer — perhaps  the  dying  one — there^  there  was  the  wrong  ! 
No  !  she  would  not  hazard  the  chance  of  a  cold — Great  Heaven  : 
perchance  an  incredulous — look  upon  the  hushed,  pale  face 
above.  But  little  time  was  left  for  thought — for  explanation — 
for  discovery.  She  saw  him — unconscious  of  the  ties  so  near, 
and  thus  lost — depart  as  a  stranger  from  the  spot ;  and  hence- 
forth was  gone  the  sweet  hope  of  living  for  the  future.  Nothing 
was  left  her  but  the  pledge  of  that  which  had  been.  Mournful, 
despondent,  half  broken-hearted,  she  resumed  her  journey.  At 
Exeter  she  was  joined,  as  agreed,  by  Mr.  Templeton  ;  and  v.-ith 
him  came  a  fair,  a  blooming  and  healthful  girl,  to  contrast  her 
own  drooping  charge.  Though  but  a  few  weeks  older,  you 
would  have  supposed  the  little  stranger  by  a  year  the  senior  of 
Alice's  child  :  the  one  was  so  well  grown,  so  advanced ;  the 
other  so  backward,  so  nipped  in  the  sickly  bud, 

"  You  can  repay  me  for  all,  for  more  than  I  have  done  ;  more 
than  I  ever  can  do  for  you  and  yours,"  said  Templeton  ;  "  by 
taking  this  young  stranger  also  under  your  care.  It  is  the  child 
of  one  dear,  most  dear  to  me ;  an  orphan :  I  know  not  with 
whom  else  to  place  it.  Let  it  for  the  present  be  supposed 
your  own — the  elder  child." 

Alice  could  refuse  nothing  to  her  benefactor  ;  but  her  heart 
did  not  open  at  first  to  the  beautiful  girl,  whose  sparkling  eyes 
and  rosy  cheeks  mocked  the  languid  looks  and  faded  hues  of 
her  own  darling.  But  the  sufferer  seemed  to  hail  a  playmate  ; 
it  smiled,  it  put  forth  its  poor,  thin  hands — it  uttered  its  inar- 
ticulate cry  of  pleasure,  and  Alice  burst  into  tears,  and  clasped 
them  both  to  her  heart. 

Mr.  Templeton  took  care  not  to  rest  under  the  same  roof 
with  her  he  now  seriously  intended  to  make  his  wife ;  but  he 
followed  Alice  to  the  seaside,  and  visited  her  daily.  Her  in- 
fant rallied — it  was  tenacious  of  the  upper  air — it  clung  to  life 
so  fondly :  poor  child,  it  could  not  foresee  what  a  bitter  thing 
to  some  of  us  life  is  !  And  now  it  was  that  Templeton,  learn- 
ing from  Alice  her  adventure  with  her  absent  lover — learning 
that  all  hope  in  that  quarter  was  gone — seized  the  occasion, 
and  pressed  his  suit.  Alice  at  that  hour  was  overflowing  with 
gratitude  ;  in  her  child's  reviving  looks  she  read  all  her  obliga- 
tions to  her  benefactor.  But  still,  at  the  word  love,  at  the  name 
of  marriage^  her  heart  recoiled ;  and  the  lost — the  faithless — 


ALICE  ;    OR,  I'lIE   MYSTERIES.  32t 

came  back  to  his  fatal  throne.  In  choked  and  broken  accents, 
she  startled  the  banker  with  the  refusal — the  faltering,  tearful, 
but  resolute  refusal — of  his  suit. 

But  Templeton  brought  new  engines  to  work  :  he  wooed  her 
through  her  child  ;  he  painted  all  the  brilliant  prospects  that 
would  open  to  the  infant  by  her  marriage  with  him.  He  would 
cherish,  rear,  provide  for  it  as  his  own.  This  shook  her  re- 
solves ;  but  this  did  not  prevail.  He  had  recourse  to  a  more 
generous  appeal :  he  told  her  so  much  of  his  history  with  Mary 
Westbrook  as  commenced  with  his  hasty  and  indecorous  mar- 
riage— attributing  the  haste  to  love  !  made  her  compreliend  his 
scruples  in  owning  the  child  of  a  union  the  world  would  be  cer- 
tain to  ridicule  or  condemn  ;  he  expatiated  on  the  inestimable 
blessings  she  could  afford  him,  by  delivering  him  from  all  em- 
barrassment, and  restoring  his  daughter,  though  under  a  bor- 
rowed name,  to  her  father's  roof.  At  this  Alice  mused, — at 
this  she  seemed  irresolute.  She  had  long  seen  how  inexpressi- 
bly dear  to  Templeton  was  the  child  confided  to  her  care  ;  how 
he  grew  pale  if  the  slightest  ailment  reached  her — how  he 
chafed  at  the  very  wind  if  it  visited  her  cheek  too  roughly — ■ 
and  she  now  said  to  him  simply : 

"  Is  your  child,  in  truth,  your  dearest  object  in  life  ?  Is  it 
with  her,  and  her  alone,  that  your  dearest  hopes  are  connected  ? " 

"It  is! — it  is,  indeed!"  said  the  banker  honestly,  surprised 
out  of  his  gallantry  :  "at  least,"  he  added,  recovering  his  self- 
possession,  '"'  as  much  so  as  is  compatible  with  my  affection  for 
you." 

"  And  only  if  I  rnarry  you,  and  adopt  her  as  my  own,  do  you 
think  that  your  secret  may  be  safely  kept,  and  all  your  wishes 
with  respect  to  her  be  fulfilled?  " 

"  Only  so." 

*'  And  for  that  reason,  chiefly,  nay  entirely,  you  condescend 
to  forget  what  I  have  been,  and  seek  my  hand  ?  Well — if  that 
were  all — I  owe  you  too  much  ;  my  poor  babe  tells  me  too  loudly 
what  I  owe  you,  to  draw  back  from  anything  that  can  give  you 
so  blessed  an  enjoyment.  Ah  !  one's  child  ! — one's  own  child 
— under  one's  own  roof — it  is  such  a  blessing  !  But  then,  if  I 
marry  you,  it  can  be  only  to  secure  to  you  that  object — to  be  as 
a  mother  to  your  child — but  wife  only  in  name  to  you  !  I  am 
not  so  lost  as  to  despise  myself.  I  know  now,  though  I  knew 
it  not  at  first,  that  I  have  been  guilty  ;  nothing  can  excuse  that 
guilt,  but  fidelity  to  him  !  Oh,  yes  !  I  never — never  can  be  un- 
faithful to  my  babe's  father !  As  for  all  else,  dispose  of  me  as 
you  will."     And  Alice,  who  from  very  innocence  had  uttered  all 


32i  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTF.RlES. 

this  without  a  blush,  now  clasped  her  hands  passionately,  and 
left  Templeton  speechless  with  mortification  and  surprise. 

When  he  recovered  himself  he  affected  not  to  understand  her; 
but  Alice  was  not  satisfied,  and  all  further  conversation  ceased. 
He  began  slowly,  and  at  last,  and  after  repeated  conferences 
and  urgings,  to  comprehend  how  strange  and  stubborn  in  some 
points  was  the  humble  creature  whom  his  proposals  so  highly 
honored.  Though  his  daughter  was  indeed  his  first  object  in 
life — though  for  her  he  was  willing  to  make  a  mdsalliance,  the 
extent  of  which  it  would  be  incumbent  on  him  studiously  to 
conceal ;  yet  still,  the  beauty  of  Alice  awoke  an  earthlier  sen- 
timent that  he  was  not  disposed  to  conquer.  He  was  quite 
willing  to  make  promises,  and  talk  generously  ;  but  when  it 
came  to  an  oath — a  solemn,  a  binding  oath — and  this  Alice 
rigidly  exacted — he  was  startled,  and  drew  back.  Though 
hypocritical,  he  was,  as  we  have  before  said,  a  most  sincere  be- 
liever. He  might  creep  through  a  promise  with  unbruised  con- 
science ;  but  he  was  not  one  who  could  have  dared  to  violate 
an  oath,  and  lay  the  load  of  perjury  on  his  soul.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  the  union  never  would  have  taken  place,  but  Templeton 
fell  ill ;  that  soft  and  relaxing  air  did  not  agree  with  him  ;  a 
low,  but  dangerous  fever  seized  him,  and  the  worldly  man 
trembled  at  the  aspect  of  Death.  It  was  in  this  illness  that 
Alice  nursed  him  with  a  daughter's  vigilance  and  care ;  and 
when  at  length  he  recovered,  impressed  with  her  zeal  and  kind- 
ness— softened  by  illness — afraid  of  the  approach  of  solitary 
age — and  feeling  more  than  ever  his  duties  to  his  motherless 
child,  he  threw  himself  at  Alice's  feet,  and  solemnly  vowed  all 
that  she  required. 

It  was  during  this  residence  in  Devonshire,  and  especially 
during  his  illness,  that  Templeton  made  and  cultivated  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mr.  Aubrey.  The  good  clergyman  prayed  with 
him  by  his  sick  bed  ;  and  when  Templeton's  danger  was  at  its 
height,  he  sought  to  relieve  his  conscience  by  a  confession  of 
his  wrongs  to  Mary  Westbrook.  The  name  startled  Aubrey  ; 
and  when  he  learned  that  the  lovely  child  who  had  so  often 
sate  on  his  knee,  and  smiled  in  his  face,  was  the  granddaughter 
of  his  first  and  only  love,  he  had  a  new  interest  in  her  welfare, 
a  new  reason  to  urge  Templeton  to  reparation,  a  new  motive  to 
desire  to  procure  for  the  infant  years  of  Eleanor's  grandchild 
the  gentle  care  of  the  young  mother,  whose  own  bereavement 
he  sorrowfully  foretold.  Perhaps  the  advice  and  exhortations 
of  Aubrey  went  far  towards  assisting  the  conscience  of  Mr. 
Templeton,  and  reconciling  him  to  the  sacrifice  he  made  to  his 


AUCfi  ;    OR,  tHE    MYSTERIES.  ^2^ 

affection  for  hh  daughter.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  married 
Alice,  and  Aubrey  solemnized  and  blessed  the  chill  and  barren 
union. 

But  now  came  a  new  and  inexpressible  affliction  ;  the  child 
of  Alice  had  rallied  but  for  a  time.  The  dread  disease  had  but 
dallied  with  its  prey ;  it  came  on  with  rapid  and  sudden  force  ; 
and  within  a  month  from  the  day  that  saw  Alice  the  bride  of 
Tenipleton,  the  last  hope  was  gone,  and  the  mother  was  bereft 
and  childless ! 

The  blow  that  stunned  Alice  was  not,  after  the  first  natural 
shock  of  sympathy,  an  unwelcome  event  to  the  banker.  Now 
Ai's  child  would  be  Alice's  sole  care  ;  now  there  could  be  no 
gossip,  no  suspicion  why,  in  life  and  after  death,  he  should 
prefer  one  child,  supposed  not  his  own,  to  the  other. 

He  hastened  to  remove  Alice  from  the  scene  of  her  affliction. 
He  dismissed  the  solitary  attendant  who  had  accompanied  her 
on  her  journey  ;  he  bore  his  wife  to  London,  and  finally  settled, 
as  we  have  seen,  at  a  villa  in  its  vicinity.  And  there,  more  and 
more,  day  by  day,  centered  his  love  upon  the  supposed  daugh- 
ter of  Mrs.  Templeton,  his  darling  and  his  heiress,  the  beautiful 
Evelyn  Cameron. 

For  the  first  year  or  two,  Templeton  evinced  some  alarming 
disposition  to  escape  from  the  oath  he  had  imposed  upon  him- 
self ;  but  on  the  slightest  hint  there  was  a  sternness  in  the 
wife,  in  all  else  so  respectful,  so  submissive,  that  repressed  and 
awed  him.  She  even  threatened — and  at  one  time  was  with 
difficulty  prevented  carrying  the  threat  into  effect — to  leave  his 
roof  for  ever,  if  there  were  the  slightest  question  of  the  sanctity 
of  his  vow.  Templeton  trembled  ;  such  a  separation  would 
excite  gossip,  curiosity,  scandal,  a  noise  in  the  world,  public 
talk,  possible  discovery.  Besides,  Alice  was  necessary  to  Evelyn, 
necessary  to  his  own  comfort ;  something  to  scold  in  health, 
something  to  rely  upon  in  illness.  Gradually  then,  but  sullenly, 
he  reconciled  himself  to  his  lot,  and  as  years  and  infirmities 
grew  upon  him,  he  was  contented,  at  least,  to  have  secured  a 
faithful  friend  and  an  anxious  nurse.  Still  a  marriage  of  this 
sort  was  not  blest ;  Templeton's  vanity  was  Avounded  ;  his 
temper,  always  harsh,  was  soured  ;  he  avenged  his  affront  by  a 
thousand  petty  tyrannies;  and,  without  a  murmur,  Alice  per- 
haps, in  those  years  of  rank  and  opulence,  suffered  more  than 
in  all  her  roofless  wanderings,  with  love  at  her  heart  and  her  in- 
fant in  her  arms. 

Evelyn  was  to  be  the  heiress  to  the  wealth  of  the  banker. 
But  the  //V/<f  of  the  new  peer ! — if  he  could  unite  wealth  and 


3^4  ALICE  ;   OR,  The  mysterIeS. 

title,  and  set  the  coronet  on  that  young  brow  !  This  had  led 
him  to  seek  the  alliance  with  Lumley.  And  on  his  death-bed, 
it  was  not  the  secret  of  Alice,  but  that  of  Mary  Westbrook  and 
his  daughter,  which  he  had  revealed  to  his  dismayed  and 
astonished  nephew,  in  excuse  for  the  apparently  unjust  aliena- 
tion of  his  property,  and  as  the  cause  of  the  alliance  he  had 
sought. 

While  her  husband — if  husband  he  might  be  called — lived, 
Alice  had  seemed  to  bury  in  her  l)Osom  her  regret — deep, 
mighty,  passionate,  as  it  was — for  her  lost  cliild — tiie  child  of 
the  unforgotten  lover,  to  whom,  through  such  trials,  and  amid 
such  new  ties,  she  had  been  faithful  from  first  to  last.  But 
when  once  more  free,  her  heart  flew  back  to  the  far  and  lowly 
grave.  Hence  her  yearly  visits  to  Brook-Green^— hence  her 
purchase  of  the  cottage,  hallowed  by  memories  of  the  dead. 
There,  on  that  lawn,  had  she  borne  forth  the  fragile  form,  to 
breathe  the  soft  noontide  air ;  there,  in  that  chamber,  had  she 
watched,  and  hoped,  and  prayed,  and  despaired  ;  there,  in  that 
quiet  burial-ground,  rested  the  beloved  dust !  But  Alice,  even 
in  her  holiest  feelings,  was  not  selfish  :  she  forbore  to  gratify 
the  first  wish  of  her  heart  till  Evelyn's  education  was  sufficiently 
advanced  to  enable  her  to  quit  the  neighborhood  ;  and  then, 
to  the  delight  of  Aubrey  (who  saw  in  Evelyn  a  fairer,  and  nobler, 
and  purer  Eleanor),  she  came  to  the  solitary  spot,  which,  in  all 
the  earth,  was  the  least  solitary  to  her  ! 

And  now  the  image  of  the  lover  of  her  youth — which,  during 
her  marriage,  she  had  sought,  at  least,  to  banish — returned  to 
her,  and,  at  times,  inspired  her  with  the  only  hopes  that  the 
grave  had  not  yet  transferred  to  heaven  !  In  relating  her  tale 
to  Aubrey,  or  in  conversing  with  Mrs.  Leslie — whose  friendship 
.she  still  maintained — shefound  that  both  concurred  in  thinking 
that  this  obscure  and  wandering  Butler,  so  skilled  in  an  art  in 
which  eminence  in  men  is  generally  professional,  must  be  of 
mediocre,  or  perhaps  humble,  station.  Ah  !  now  that  she  was 
free  and  rich,  if  she  were  to  meet  him  again,  and  his  love  was 
not  all  gone,  and  he  would  believe  in  her  strange  and  constant 
truth — now,  his  infidelity  could  be  forgiven — forgotten  in  the 
benefits  it  might  be  hers  to  bestow  !  And  how,  poor  Alice,  in 
that  remote  village,  was  chance  to  throw  him  in  your  way  ?  She 
knew  not :  but  something  often  whispered  to  her, — "  Again  you 
shall  meet  those  eyes — again  you  shall  hear  that  voice  ;  and 
you  shall  tell  him,  weeping  on  his  breast,  how  you  loved  his 
child  !  "  And  would  he  not  have  forgotten  her  ? — would  he 
not  have  formed  new  ties  ? — could  he  read  the  loveliness  of  un* 


ALicE  ;   OR,  THE  Mysteries,  525 

changeable  affeclion  in  that  pale  and  pensive  face  ?  Alas,  when 
we  love  intensely,  it  is  difficult  to  make  us  fancy  that  there  is 
no  love  in  return  ! 

The  reader  is  acquainted  with  the  adventures  of  Mrs.  Elton, 
the  sole  confidant  of  the  secret  union  of  Templeton  and  Evelyn's 
mother.  By  a  singular  fatality,  it  was  the  selfish  and  charac- 
teristic recklessness  of  Vargrave  that  had,  in  fixing  her  home  at 
Burleigh,  ministered  to  the  revelation  of  his  own  villainous  de- 
ceit. On  returning  to  England  she  had  inquired  for  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton ;  she  had  learned  that  he  had  married  again,  had  been 
raised  to  the  peerage  under  the  title  of  Lord  Vargrave,  and  was 
gathered  to  his  fathers.  She  had  no  claim  on  his  widow  or  his 
family.  But  the  unfortunate  child  who  should  have  inherited 
his  property — she  could  only  suppose  her  dead. 

When  she  first  saw  Evelyn,  she  was  startled  by  her  likeness 
to  her  unfortunate  mother.  But  the  unfamiliar  name  of  Cam- 
eron— the  intelligence  received  from  Maltravers  that  Evelyn's 
mother  still  lived — dispelled  her  suspicions  :  and  though  at 
times  the  resemblance  haunted  her,  she  doubted  and  inquired 
no  more.  In  fact,  her  own  infirmities  grew  upon  her,  and  pain 
usurped  her  thoughts. 

Now  it  so  happened,  that  the  news  of  the  engagement  of 
Maltravers  to  Miss  Cameron  became  known  to  the  county  but 
a  little  time  before  he  arrived — for  news  travels  slow  from  the 
Continent  to  our  provinces — and,  of  course,  excited  all  the  com- 
ment of  the  villagers.  Her  nurse  repeated  the  tale  to  Mrs. 
Elton,  who  instantly  remembered  the  name,  and  recalled  the 
resemblance  of  Miss  Cameron  to  the  unfortunate  Mary  West- 
brook, 

"  And,"  said  the  gossiping  nurse,  "she  was  engaged,  they 
say,  to  a  great  lord,  and  gave  him  up  for  the  squire — a  great 
lord  in  the  court,  who  had  been  staying  at  Parson  Merton's  ! 
— Lord  Vargrave  !  " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Elton,  remembering  the 
title  to  which  Mr.  Templeton  had  been  raised. 

"Yes;  they  do  say  as  how  the  late  lord  left  Miss  Cameron 
all  his  money — such  a  heap  of  it — though  she  was  not  his 
child — over  the  head  of  his  nevy,  the  present  lord,  on  the  un- 
derstanding like  that  they  were  to  be  married  when  she  came 
of  age.  But  she  would  not  take  to  him  after  she  had  seen  the 
squire.  And,  to  be  sure,  the  squire  is  the  finest-looking  gen- 
tleman in  the  county," 

"Stop— stop!"  said  Mrs.  Elton  feebly;  "the  late  lord  left 


326  AUCfe  ;    OR,  THE    MYStEftlES, 

all  liis  fortune  to  Miss  Cameron  ? — not  his  child  !  I  guess  the 
riddle — I  understand  it  all ! — my  foster-child  !"  she  murmured, 
turning  away  ;  "  how  could  I  have  mistaken  that  likeness  ?  " 

The  agitation  of  the  discovery  she  supposed  she  had  made, 
her  joy  at  the  thought  that  the  child  she  had  loved  as  her  own 
wns  alive  and  possessed  of  its  rights,  expedited  the  progress  of 
Mrs.  Elton's  disease ;  and  Maltravers  arrived  just  in  time  to 
learn  her  confession  (which  she  naturally  wished  to  make  to 
one  who  was  at  once  her  benefactor,  and  supposed  to  be 
the  destined  husband  of  her  foster-child),  and  to  be  agitated 
with  hope — with  joy — at  her  solemn  conviction  of  the  truth  of 
her  surmises.  If  Evelyn  were  not  his  daughter — even  if  not  to 
be  his  bride — what  a  weight  from  his  soul !  He  hastened  to 
Brook-Green  ;  and,  dreading  to  rush  at  once  to  the  presence 
of  Alice,  he  recalled  Aubrey  to  his  recollection.  In  the  inter- 
view he  sought,  all,  or  at  least  much,  was  cleared  up.  He  saw 
at  once  the  premeditated  and  well-planned  villany  of  Vargrave. 
And  Alice,  her  tale — her  sufferings — her  indomitable  love  ! — 
how  should  he  meet  her. 


CHAPTER.  V. 

"  Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels  !  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  !  " — Lycidas. 

While  Maltravers  was  yet  agitated  and  excited  by  the  dis- 
closures of  the  curate,  to  whom,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  had 
divulged  his  own  identity  with  the  mysterious  Butler,  Aubrey, 
turning  his  eyes  to  the  casement,  saw  the  form  of  Lady  Var- 
grave slowly  approaching  towards  the  house. 

"  Will  you  withdraw  to  the  inner  room,"  said  he;  "  she  is 
coming  ;  you  are  not  yet  prepared  to  meet  her? — nay,  would 
it  be  well  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes — I  am  prepared — we  must  be  alone.  I  will  await 
her  here." 

''But—" 

"  Nay,  I  implore  you  !  " 

The  curate,  without  another  word,  retired  into  the  inner 
apartment,  and  Maltravers,  sinking  in  a  chair,  breathlessly 
awaited  the  entrance  of  Lady  Vargrave.  He  soon  heard  the 
light  step  without ;  the  door,  which  opened  at  once  on  the  old- 
fashioned  parlor,  was  gently  unclosed,  and  Lady  Vargrave  was 
in  the  room  !  In  the  position  he  had  taken,  only  the  outline  of 
Ernest's  form  was  seen  by  Alice,  and  the  daylight  came  dim 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  327 

through  the  cottage  casement  ;  and,  seeing  some  one  seated  in 
tlie  curate's  accustomed  chair,  she  could  but  believe  that  it  was 
Aubrey  himself. 

"  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  that  sweet,  low  voice, 
whose  music  had  been  dumb  for  so  many  years  to  Maltravers — 
"but  1  have  a  letter  from  France,  from  a  stranger — it  alarms 
me  so — it  is  about  Evelyn," — and,  as  if  to  imply  that  she  medi- 
tated a  longer  visit  than  ordinary,  Lady  Vargrave  removed  her 
bonnet,  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  Surprised  that  the  curate 
had  not  answered,  had  not  come  forward  to  welcome  her,  she 
then  approached  :  Maltravers  rose,  and  they  stood  before  each 
other  face  to  face.  And  how  lovely  still  was  Alice  !  lovelier 
he  thought  even  than  of  old  !  And  those  eyes,  so  divinely  blue, 
so  dove-like  and  soft,  yet  with  some  spiritual  and  unfathomable 
mystery  in  their  clear  depth,  were  once  more  fixed  upon  him. 
Alice  seemed  turned  to  stone  ;  she  moved  not — she  spoke  not — 
she  scarcely  breathed  ;  she  gazed  spellbound,  as  if  her  senses — 
as  if  life  itself — had  deserted  her, 

"  Alice  !  "  murmured  Maltravers, — "Alice,  we  meet  at  last !" 

His  voice  restored  memory,  consciousness,  youth,  at  once  to 
her !  She  uttered  a  loud  cry  of  unspeakable  joy,  of  rapture  ! 
She  sprang  forward — reserve,  fear,  time,  change,  all  forgotten — 
she  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  she  clasped  him  to  her  heart 
again  and  again ! — the  faithful  dog  that  has  found  his  master 
expresses  not  his  transport  more  uncontrollably,  more  wildly. 
It  was  something  fearful — the  excess  of  her  ecstasy  ! — she  kissed 
his  hands,  his  clothes  ;  she  laughed,  she  wept ;  and  at  last,  as 
words  came,  she  laid  her  head  on  his  breast,  and  said  passion- 
ately,— "  I  have  been  true  to  thee  !  I  have  been  true  to  thee — 
or  this  hour  would  have  killed  me  !  "  Then,  as  if  alarmed  by 
his  silence,  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  and,  as  his  burning  tears 
fell  upon  her  cheek,  she  said  again  and  with  more  hurried  vehe- 
mence— "  I  have  been  faithful — do  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 

"  I  do — I  do,  noble,  unequalled  Alice  !  why,  why  were  you  so 
long  lost  to  me  ?     Why  now  does  your  love  so  shame  my  own  ?" 

At  these  words  Alice  appeared  to  awaken  from  her  first  ob- 
livion of  all  that  had  chanced  since  they  met :  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  drew  herself  gently  and  bashfully  from  his  embrace. 
"Ah!"  she  said,  in  altered  and  humbled  accents,  "you  have 
loved  another !  perhaps  you  have  no  love  left  for  me  !  Is  it  so  ? 
is  it  ?     No,  no  ; — those  eyes — you  love  me — you  love  me  still !  " 

And  again  she  clung  to  him,  as  if  it  were  heaven  to  believe 
all  things,  and  death  to  doubt.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  drew 
him  gently  with  both  bapd^  towards  the  light,  and  gazed  upon 


328  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

him  fondly,  proudly,  as  If  to  trace,  line  by  line,  and  feature  by 
feature,  the  countenance  which  had  been  to  her  svveet  thoughts 
as  the  sunlight  to  the  flowers :  "Changed,  changed,"  she  mut- 
tered— "  but  still  the  same, — still  beautiful,  still  divine  ! "  She 
stopped  :  a  sudden  thought  struck  her  :  his  garments  were  worn 
and  soiled  by  travel,  and  that  princely  crest,  fallen  and  dejected, 
no  longer  towered  in  proud  defiance  above  the  sons  of  men. 
"You  are  not  rich,"  she  exclaimed  eagerly — "say  you  are  not 
rich  !  I  am  rich  enough  for  both  ;  it  is  all  yours — all  yours — 
I  did  not  betray  you  for  it ;  there  is  no  shame  in  it — Oh,  we 
shall  be  so  happy  !  Thou  art  come  back  to  thy  poor  Alice  ! 
thou  knowest  how  she  loved  thee  !" 

There  was  in  Alice's  manner — her  wild  joy,  something  so 
different  from  her  ordinary  self — that  none  who  could  have  seen 
her — quiet,  pensive,  subdued — would  have  fancied  her  the  same 
being.  All  that  Society  and  its  woes  had  taught  were  gone ; 
and  Nature  once  more  claimed  her  fairest  child.  The  very 
years  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  her  brow,  and  she  looked 
scarcely  older  than  when  she  had  stood  with  him  beneath  the 
moonlight  by  the  violet  banks  far  away.  Suddenly  her  color 
faded  ;  the  smile  passed  from  the  dimpled  lips  ;  a  sad  and 
solemn  aspect  succeeded  to  that  expression  of  passionate  joy — 
"Come,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "come,  follow";  and,  still 
clasping  his  hand,  she  drew  him  to  the  door.  Silent  and  won- 
deringly  he  followed  her  across  the  lawn,  through  the  moss- 
grown  gate,  and  into  the  lonely  burial-ground.  She  moved  on 
with  a  noiseless  and  gliding  step — so  pale,  so  hushed,  so  breath- 
less, that,  even  in  the  noonday,  you  might  have  half  fancied 
the  fair  shape  was  not  owned  by  earth.  She  paused  where  the 
yew-tree  cast  its  gloomy  shadow  ;  and  the  small  and  tombless 
mound,  separated  from  the  rest,  was  before  them.  She  pointed 
to  it,  and  falling  on  her  knees  beside  it,  murmured — "Hush,  it 
sleeps  below — thy  child  !  "  She  covered  her  face  with  both  her 
hands,  and  her  form  shook  convulsively. 

Beside  that  form,  and  before  that  grave,  knelt  Maltravers. 
There  vanished  the  last  remnant  of  his  stoic  pride  ;  and  there — 
Evelyn  herself  forgotten — there  did  he  pray  to  Heaven  for  par- 
don to  himself,  and  blessings  on  the  heart  he  had  betrayed. 
There  solemnly  did  he  vow,  the  remainder  of  his  years,  to  guard 
from  all  future  ill  the  faithful  and  childless  mother ! 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  329 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Will  Fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full. 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters  ?  " 

—Henry  IV.,  Part  II. 

I  PASS  over  those  explanations — that  record  of  Alice's  event- 
ful history — which  Maltravers  learnt  from  her  own  lips,  to 
confirm  and  add  to  the  narrative  of  the  curate,  the  purport  of 
which  is  already  known  to  the  reader. 

It  was  many  hours  before  Alice  was  sufficiently  composed  to 
remember  the  object  for  which  she  had  sought  the  curate.  But 
she  had  laid  the  letter  which  she  had  brought,  and  which  ex- 
plained all,  on  the  table  at  the  vicarage  ;  and  when  Maltravers, 
having  at  last  induced  Alice,  who  seemed  afraid  to  lose  sight  of 
him  for  an  instant,  to  retire  to  her  room,  and  seek  some  short 
repose,  returned  towards  the  vicarage,  he  met  Aubrey  in  the 
garden.  The  old  man  had  taken  the  friend's  acknowledged 
license  to  read  the  letter  evidently  meant  for  his  eye;  and, 
alarmed  and  anxious,  he  now  eagerly  sought  a  consultation  with 
Maltravers.  The  letter,  written  in  English,  as  familiar  to  the 
writer  as  her  own  tongue,  was  from  Madame  de  Ventadour.  It 
had  been  evidently  dictated  by  the  kindest  feelings.  After 
apologizing  briefly  for  her  interference,  she  stated  that  Lord 
Vargrave's  marriage  with  Miss  Cameron  was  now  a  matter  of 
notoriety  ;  that  it  would  take  place  in  a  few  days  ;  that  it  was 
observed  with  suspicion  that  Miss  Cameron  appeared  nowhere ; 
that  she  seemed  almost  a  prisoner  in  her  room  ;  that  certain 
expressions  which  had  dropped  from  Lady  Doltimore  had 
alarmed  her  greatly.  According  to  these  expressions,  it  would 
seem  that  Lady  Vargrave  was  not  apprised  of  the  approaching 
event ;  that,  considering  Miss  Cameron's  recent  engagement  to 
Mr.  Maltravers,  suddenly  (and,  as  Valerie  thought,  unaccount- 
ably) broken  off,  on  the  arrival  of  Lord  Vargrave  ;  considering 
her  extreme  youth,  her  brilliant  fortune :  and,  Madame  de 
Ventadour  delicately  hinted,  considering  also  Lord  Vargrave's 
character  for  unscrupulous  determination  in  the  furtherance  of 
any  object  on  which  he  was  bent — considering  all  this,  Madame 
de  Ventadour  had  ventured  to  address  Miss  Cameron's  mother, 
and  to  guard  her  against  the  possibility  of  design  or  deceit.  Her 
best  apology  for  her  intrusion  must  be  her  deep  interest  in  Miss 
Cameron,  and  her  long  friendship  for  one  to  whom  Miss  Cameron 
had  been  so  lately  betrothed.  If  Lady  Vargrave  were  aware  of 
the  new  engagement,  and  had  sanctioned  it,  of  course  her  in- 


330  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

trusion  was  unseasonable  and  superfluous ;  but,  if  ascribed  to 
its  real  motive,  would  not  be  the  less  forgiven. 

It  was  easy  for  Maltravers  to  see  in  this  letter  how  generous 
and  zealous  bad  been  that  friendship  for  himself,  which  could 
have  induced  the  woman  of  the  world  to  undertake  so  officious 
a  task.  But  of  this  he  thought  not,  as  he  hurried  over  the  lines, 
and  shuddered  at  Evelyn's  urgent  danger. 

"This  intelligence,"  said  Aubrey,  "must  be,  indeed,  a  surprise 
to  Lady  Vargrave.  For  we  have  not  heard  a  word  from  Evelyn 
or  Lord  Vargrave  to  announce  such  a  marriage  ;  and  she  (and 
myself,  till   this  day)  believed  that   the  engagement  between 

Evelyn  and  Mr. ,  1  mean,"  said  Aubrey,  with  confusion, — 

"  I  mean  yourself,  was  still  in  force  :  Lord  Vargrave's  villany  is 
apparent ;  we  must  act  immediately.     What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"I  will  return  to  Paris  to-morrow  ;  I  will  defeat  his  machina- 
tions— expose  his  falsehood  !  " 

"You  may  need  a  proxy  for  Lady  Vargrave,  an  authority  for 
Evelyn  :  one  whom  Lord  Vargrave  knows  to  possess  the  secret 
of  her  birth,  her  rights  :  I  will  go  with  you.  We  must  speak  to 
Lady  Vargrave !  " 

Maltravers  turned  sharply  round.  "And  Alice  knows  not 
who  I  am  :  that  I — I  am,  or  was,  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  suitor  of 
another  ;  and  that  other  the  child  she  has  reared  as  her  own  I 
Unhappy  Alice  !  in  the  very  hour  of  her  joy  at  my  return,  is  she 
to  writhe  beneath  this  new  affliction  !  " 

"Shall  I  break  it  to  her?"  said  Aubre)',  pityingly. 

"  No,  no  ;  these  lips  must  inflict  the  last  wrong  ! " 

Maltravers  walked  away,  and  the  curate  saw  him  no  more  till 
night. 

In  the  interval,  and  late  in  the  evening,  Maltravers  rejoined 
Alice. 

The  fire  burned  clear  on  the  hearth — the  curtains  were  drawn — 
the  pleasant  but  simple  drawing-room  of  the  cottage  smiled  its 
welcome  as  Maltravers  entered,  and  Alice  sprung  up  to  greet 
him  !  It  was  as  if  the  old  days  of  the  music-lesson  and  the 
meerschaum  had  come  back. 

"This  is  yours,"  said  Alice  tenderly,  as  he  looked  round  the 
apartment.  "  Now — now  I  know  what  a  blessed  thing  riches 
are  !  Ah,  you  are  looking  on  that  picture — it  is  of  her  who  sup- 
plied your  daughter's  place — she  is  so  beautiful,  so  good,  you 
will  love  her  as  a  daughter.  Oh,  that  letter — that — that  letter — 
I  forgot  it  till  now — it  is  at  the  vicarage — I  must  go  there  immedi- 
ately, and  you  will  come  too — you  will  advise  us." 

"Alice,  1  have  read  the  letter — X  know  all,    Alice,  sit  down 


ALICE;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  33 1 

and  hear  me — it  is  you  who  have  to  learn  from  me.  In  our 
young  days,  I  was  accustomed  to  tell  you  stories  in  winter  nights 
like  these — stories  of  love  like  our  own — of  sorrows  which,  at 
that  time,  we  only  knew  by  hearsay.  I  have  one  now'  for  your 
ear,  truer  and  sadder  than  they  were.  Two  children,  for  they 
were  then  little  more — children  in  ignorance  of  the  world — chil- 
dren in  freshness  of  heart — children  almost  in  years — were 
thrown  together  by  strange  vicissitudes,  more  than  eighteen  years 
ago.  They  were  of  different  sexes — they  loved,  and  they  erred. 
But  the  error  was  solely  with  the  boy  ;  for  what  was  innocence  in 
her  was  but  passion  in  him.  He  loved  her  dearly  ;  but  at  that 
age  her  qualities  were  half  developed.  He  knew  her  beautiful, 
simple,  tender  ;  but  he  knew  not  all  the  virtue,  the  faith,  and  the 
nobleness  that  Heaven  had  planted  in  her  soul.  They  parted — 
they  knew  not  each  other's  fate.  He  sought  her  anxiously,  but 
vain  ;  and  sorrow  and  remorse  long  consumed  him,  and  her 
memory  threw  a  shadow  over  his  existence.  But  again — for  his 
love  had  not  the  exalted  holiness  of  hers  {she  was  true  !) — he 
sought  to  renew  in  others  the  charm  he  had  lost  with  her.  In 
vain — long — long — in  vain.  Alice,  you  know  to  whom  the  tale 
refers.  Nay,  listen  yet.  I  have  heard  from  the  old  man  yonder, 
that  you  were  witness  to  a  scene  many  years  ago  wliich  deceived 
you  into  the  belief  that  you  beheld  a  rival.  It  was  not  so  :  that 
lady  yet  lives, — then,  as  now,  a  friend  to  me  ;  nothing  more.  I 
grant  that,  at  one  time,  my  fancy  allured  me  to  her,  but  my 
heart  was  still  true  to  thee." 

"Bless  you  for  those  words ! "  murmured  Alice  ;  and  she  crept 
more  closely  to  him. 

He  went  on.  "  Circumstances,  which  at  some  calmer  occasion 
you  shall  hear,  again  nearly  connected  my  fate  by  marriage  to 
another.  I  had  then  seen  you  at  a  distance,  unseen  by  you — 
seen  you  apparently  surrounded  by  respectability  and  opulence  ; 
and  I  blessed  Heaven  that  your  lot,  at  least,  was  not  that  of 
penury  and  want."  [Here  Maltravers  related  where  he  had 
caught  that  brief  glimpse  of  Alice  * — how  he  had  sought  for  her 
again  and  again  in  vain.]  "  From  that  hour,"  he  continued, 
"seeing  you  in  circumstances  of  which  I  could  not  have  dared 
to  dream,  I  felt  more  reconciled  to  the  past ;  yet,  when  on  the 
verge  of  marriage  with  another — beautiful,  gifted,  generous  as 
she  was — a  thought — a  memory  half  acknowledged — dimly 
traced — chained  back  my  sentiments  ;  and  admiration,  esteem, 
and  gratitude,  were  not  love  !  Death — a  death,  melancholy  and 
tragic,  forbade  this  union  ;  and  I  went  forth  in  the  world,  a  pil' 

♦  See  Ernest  Maltravers,  Part  I.,  Book  v.,  pp.  i86,  187. 


332  ALiC£  ;    OR,  TllE   MYSTERlfeS. 

grim  and  a  wanderer.  Years  rolled  away,  and  I  thought  I  had 
conquered  the  desire  for  love — a  desire  that  had  haunted  me 
since  I  lost  thee.  But,  suddenly  and  recently,  a  being,  beauti- 
ful as  yourself — sweet,  guileless,  and'young  as  you  were  when 
we  met — woke  in  me  a  new  and  strange  sentiment.  I  will  not 
conceal  it  from  you  :  Alice,  at  last  I  loved  another  I  Yet,  sin- 
gular as  it  may  seem  to  you,  it  was  a  certain  resemblance  to 
yourself,  not  in  feature,  but  in  the  tones  of  the  voice — the  name- 
less grace  of  gesture  and  manner — the  very  music  of  your  once 
happy  laugh — those  traits  of  resemblance  which  I  can  now  ac- 
count for,  and  which  children  catch  not  from  their  parents  only, 
but  from  those  they  most  see,  and,  loving  most,  most  imitate,  in 
their  tender  years ; — all  these,  I  say,  made  perhaps  a  chief  at- 
traction, that  drew  me  towards — Alice,  are  you  prepared  for  it? — 
drew  me  towards  Evelyn  Cameron.  Know  me  in  my  real  char- 
acter, by  my  true  name  :  I  am  that  Maltravers  to  whom  the  hand 
of  Evelyn  was  a  few  weeks  ago  betrothed  !  " 

He  paused  and  ventured  to  look  up  at  Alice — she  was  ex- 
ceedingly pale,  and  her  hands  were  tightly  clasped  together — 
but  she  neither  wept  nor  spoke.  The  worst  was  over — he  con- 
tinued more  rapidly,  and  with  less  constrained  an  effort.  "  By 
the  art,  the  duplicity,  the  falsehood  of  Lord  Vargrave,  I  was 
taught  in  a  sudden  hour  to  believe  that  Evelyn  was  our  daugh- 
ter— that  you  recoiled  from  the  prospect  of  beholding  once  more 
the  author  of  so  many  miseries.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Alice,  of 
the  horror  that  succeeded  to  love.  I  pass  over  the  tortures  I 
endured.  By  a  train  of  incidents  to  be  related  to  you  hereafter, 
I  was  led  to  suspect  the  truth  of  Vargrave's  tale.  I  came 
hither — I  have  learned  all  from  Aubrey — I  regret  no  more  the 
falsehood  that  so  racked  me  for  the  time  !  I  regret  no  more  the 
rupture  of  my  bond  with  Evelyn — I  regret  nothing  that  brings 
me  at  last  free  and  unshackled  to  thy  feet,  and  acquaints  me 
with  thy  sublime  faith  and  ineffable  love.  Here,  then — here  be- 
neath your  own  roof — here  he,  at  once  your  earliest  friend  and 
foe,  kneels  to  you  for  pardon  and  for  hope  ! — he  woos  you  as  his 
wife — his  companion  to  the  grave  ! — forget  all  his  errors,  and  be 
to  him,  under  a  holier  name,  all  that  you  were  to  him  of  old  !" 

"  And  you  are  then  Evelyn's  suitor  ? — you  are  he  whom  she 
loves? — I  see  it  all — all !  "  Alice  rose,  and,  before  he  was  even 
aware  of  her  purpose,  or  conscious  of  what  she  felt,  she  had 
vanished  from  the  room. 

Long,  and  with  the  bitterest  feelings,  he  awaited  her  return — 
she  came  not.  At  last  he  wrote  a  hurried  note,  imploring  her  to 
join  him  again,  to  relieve  his  suspense — to  believe  his  sincerity — 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  35^ 

to  accept  Ills  vows.  He  sent  it  to  her  own  room,  to  whicli  she 
had  hastened  to  bury  her  emotions.  In  a  few  minutes  there 
came  to  him  this  answer,  written  in  pencil,  blotted  with  tears : 

"  I  thank  you — I  understand  your  heart — but  forgive  me — I 
cannot  see  you  yet — she  is  so  beautiful  and  good — she  is  worthy 
of  you.  I  shall  soon  be  reconciled — God  bless  you — bless  you 
both  ! " 

The  door  of  the  vicarage  was  opened  abruptly,  and  Mai  travers 
entered  with  a  hasty  but  heavy  tread. 

"  Go  to  her — go  to  that  angel — go,  I  beseech  you  !  Tell  her 
that  she  wrongs  me — if  she  thinks,  I  can  ever  wed  another — 
ever  have  an  object  in  life,  but  to  atone  to — to  merit  her. 
Go — plead  for  me." 

Aubrey,  who  soon  gathered  from  Maltravers  what  had  passed, 
departed  to  the  cottage — it  was  near  midnight  before  he  returned. 
Maltravers  met  him  in  the  church-yard,  beside  the  yew-tree. 
"  Well,  well — what  message  do  you  bring?" 

"  She  wishes  that  we  should  both  set  off  for  Paris  to-morrow. 
Not  a  day  is  to  be  lost — we  must  save  Evelyn  from  this  snare." 

"  Evelyn  !  Yes,  Evelyn  shall  be  saved :  but  the  rest — the 
rest — why  do  you  turn  away?" 

"'You  are  not  the  poor  artist — the  wandering  adventurer — 
you  are  the  high-born,  the  wealthy,  the  renowned  Maltravers : 
Alice  has  nothing  to  confer  on  you :  You  have  won  the  love  of 
Evelyn — Alice  cannot  doom  the  child  confided  to  her  care  to 
hopeless  affection  :  You  love  Evelyn — Alice  cannot  compare 
herself  to  the  young,  and  educated,  and  beautiful  creature, 
whose  love  is  a  priceless  treasure:  Alice  prays  you  not  to  grieve 
for  her:  She  will  soon  be  content  and  happy  in  your  happiness.' 
This  is  the  message." 

"And  what  said  you? — did  you  not  tell  her  such  words  would 
break  my  heart?" 

**  No  matter  v/hat  I  said — I  mistrust  myself  when  I  advise 
her.     Her  feelings  are  truer  than  all  our  wisdom  ! " 

Maltravers  made  no  answer,  and  the  curate  saw  him  gliding 
rapidly  away  by  the  starlit  graves  towards  the  village. 


334  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*'  Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness?" — Measure  for  Measure. 

They  were  on  the  road  to  Dover.  Maltravers  leant  back  in 
the  corner  of  the  carriage  with  his  hat  over  his  brows,  though 
the  morning  was  yet  too  dark  for  the  curate  to  perceive  more 
than  the  outline  of  his  features.  Milestone  after  milestone 
glided  by  the  wheels,  and  neither  of  the  travellers  broke  the 
silence.  It  was  a  cold,  raw  morning,  and  the  mists  rose  sullenly 
from  the  dank  hedges  and  comfortless  fields. 

Stern  and  self-accusing  was  the  scrutiny  of  Maltravers  into 
the  recesses  of  his  conscience,  and  the  blotted  pages  of  the 
Past.  That  pale  and  solitary  mother,  mourning  over  the  grave 
of  her — of  his  own — child,  rose  again  before  his  eyes,  and  seemed 
silently  to  ask  him  for  an  account  of  the  heart  he  had  made 
barren,  and  of  the  youth  to  which  his  love  had  brought  the 
joylessness  of  age.  With  the  image  of  Alice, — afar,  alone, 
whether  in  her  wanderings,  a  beggar  and  an  outcast,  or  in  that 
hollow  prosperity,  in  which  the  very  ease  of  the  frame  allowed 
more  leisure  to  the  pinings  of  the  heart — with  that  image,  pure, 
sorrowing,  and  faithful  from  first  to  last,  he  compared  his  own 
wild  and  wasted  youth — his  resort  to  fancy  and  to  passion  for 
excitement.  He  contrasted  with  her  patient  resignation  his 
own  arrogant  rebellion  against  the  trials,  the  bitterness  of  which 
his  proud  spirit  had  exaggerated — his  contempt  for  the  pursuits 
and  aims  of  others — the  imperious  indolence  of  his  later  life, 
and  his  forgetfulness  of  the  duties  which  Providence  had  fitted 
him  to  discharge.  His  mind,  once  so  rudely  hurled  from  that 
complacent  pedestal,  from  which  it  had  so  long  looked  down 
on  men,  and  said,  "I  am  wiser  and  better  than  you,"  became 
even  too  acutely  sensitive  to  its  own  infirmities;  and  that  desire 
for  Virtue,  which  he  had  ever  deeply  entertained,  made  itself 
more  distinctly  and  loudly  heard  amidst  the  ruins  and  the  silence 
of  his  pride. 

From  the  contemplation  of  the  Past,  he  roused  himself  to 
face  the  Future.  Alice  had  refused  his  hand — Alice  herself 
had  ratified  and  blessed  his  union  with  another  !  Evelyn  so 
madly  loved — Evelyn  might  still  be  his  !  No  law — from  tlie 
violation  of  which,  even  in  thought,  Human  Nature  recoils 
appalled  and  horror-stricken — forbade  him  to  reclaim  her  hand — 
to  snatch  her  from  the  grasp  of  Vargrave — to  woo  again,  and 
again  to  win  her!     But  did  Maltravers  welcome,  didheembrace 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  335 

that  thought?  Let  us  do  him  justice:  he  did  not.  He  felt 
that  Alice's  resolution,  in  tlie  first  hour  of  mortified  affection, 
was  not  to  be  considered  final ;  and  even  if  it  were  so,  he  felt 
yet  more  deeply  that  her  love — the  love  that  had  withstood  so 
many  trials — never  could  be  subdued.  Was  he  to  make  her 
nobleness  a  curse?  Was  he  to  say,  "Thou  hast  passed  away 
in  thy  generation,  and  I  leave  thee  again  to  thy  solitude,  for 
her  whom  thou  hast  cherished  as  a  child?"  He  started  in 
dismay  from  the  thought  of  this  new  and  last  blow  upon  the 
shattered  spirit ;  and  then  fresh  and  equally  sacred  obstacles 
between  Evelyn  and  himself  broke  slowly  on  his  view.  Could 
Templeton  rise  from  his  grave,  with  what  resentment,  with  what 
just  repugnance,  would  he  have  regarded  in  the  betrayer  of 
his  wife  (even  though  wife  but  in  name)  the  suitor  to  his 
child  ! 

These  thoughts  came  in  fast  and  fearful  force  upon  Mal- 
travers,  and  served  to  strengthen  his  honor  and  his  conscience. 
He  felt  that  though,  in  law,  there  was  no  shadow  of  connection 
between  Evelyn  and  himself,  yet  his  tie  with  Alice  had  been  of 
a  nature  that  ought  to  separate  him  from  one  who  had  regarded 
Alice  as  a  mother.  The  load  of  horror,  the  agony  of  shame, 
were  indeed  gone  ;  but  still  a  voice  whispered  as  before,  "Evelyn 
is  lost  to  thee  for  ever ! "  But  so  shaken  had  already  been  her 
image  in  the  late  storms  and  convulsion  of  his  soul,  that  this 
thought  was  preferable  to  the  thought  of  sacrificing  Alice.  If 
that  were  all — but  Evelyn  might  still  love  him  ;  and  justice  to 
Alice  might  be  misery  to  her !  He  started  from  his  revery 
with  a  vehement  gesture,  and  groaned  audibly. 

The  curate  turned  to  address  to  him  some  words  of  inquiry 
and  surprise  ;  but  the  words  were  unheard,  and  he  perceived, 
by  the  advancing  daylight,  that  the  countenance  of  Maltravers 
was  that  of  a  man  utterly  rapt  and  absorbed  by  some  mastering 
and  irresistible  thought.  Wisely  therefore  he  left  his  companion 
in  peace,  and  returned  to  his  own  anxious  and  engrossing  med- 
itations. 

The  travellers  did  not  rest  till  they  arrived  at  Dover.  The 
vessel  started  early  the  following  morning,  and  Aubrey,  who 
was  much  fatigued,  retired  to  rest.  Maltravers  glanced  at  the 
clock  upon  the  mantelpiece  :  it  was  the  hour  of  nine.  For  him 
there  was  no  hope  of  sleep  ;  and  the  prospect  of  the  slow  night 
was  that  of  dreary  suspense,  and  torturing  self-commune. 

As  he  turned  restlessly  in  his  seat,  the  waiter  entered  to  say 
that  there  was  a  gentleman,  who  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
below  on  his  arrival,  who  was  anxious  to  speak  with  him.     Before 


336  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

Maltravers  could  answer,  the  gentleman  himself  entered,  and 
Maltravers  recognized  Legard. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  tone  of  great  agita- 
tion, "  but  I  was  most  anxious  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments.  I 
have  just  returned  to  England — all  places  alike  hateful  to  me  ! 
I  read  in  the  papers — an — an  announcement — which — which 
occasions  me  the  greatest — I  know  not  what  I  would  say, — but 
is  it  true  ? — Read  the  paragraph  ;"  and  Legard  placed  The 
Courier  before  Maltravers. 

The  passage  was  as  follows  : 

"It  is  whispered  that  Lord  Vargrave,  who  is  now  at  Paris,  is 
to  be  married  in  a  few  days  to  the  beautiful  and  wealthy  Miss 
Cameron,  to  whom  he  has  been  long  engaged." 

"Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Legard,  following  the  eyes  of 
Maltravers,  as  he  glanced  over  the  paragraph — "  were  x\o\.you 
the  lover, — the  accepted,  the  happy  lover  of  Miss  Cameron  ? 
Speak,  tell  me,  I  implore  you  ! — that  it  was  for  you,  who  saved 
my  life  and  redeemed  my  honor,  and  not  for  that  cold  schemer, 
that  I  renounced  all  my  hopes  of  earthly  happiness,  and  sur- 
rendered the  dream  of  winning  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  only- 
woman  I  ever  loved  ! " 

A  deep  shade  fell  over  the  features  of  Maltravers.  He  gazed 
earnestly  and  long  upon  the  working  countenance  of  Legard, 
and  said,  after  a  pause : 

"You,  too,  loved  her,  then.     I  never  knew  it — never  guessed 
it:    or,   if   once    I    suspected,   it   was    but    for  a    moment;, 
and — " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Legard  passionately,  "  Heaven  is  my 
witness  how  fervently  and  truly  I  did  love  !  I  do  still  love  Eve- 
lyn Cameron  !  But  when  you  confessed  to  me  your  affection — 
your  hopes — I  felt  all  that  I  owed  you;  I  felt  that  I  never  ought 
to  become  your  rival.  I  left  Paris  abruptly.  What  I  have  suf- 
fered I  will  not  say  ;  but  it  was  some  comfort  to  think  that  I  had 
acted  as  became  one  who  owed  you  a  debt  never  to  be  cancelled 
nor  repaid.  I  travelled  from  place  to  place,  each  equally  hate- 
ful and  wearisome — at  last,  I  scarce  know  why,  I  returned  to 
England.  I  have  arrived  this  day, — and  now — but  tell  me,  is  it 
true  ? " 

"  I  believe  it  true,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  that 
Evelyn  is  at  this  moment  engaged  to  Lord  Vargrave.  I  believe 
it  equally  true,  that  that  engagement,  founded  upon  false  im- 
pressions, never  will  be  fulfilled.  With  that  hope  and  that  belief, 
I  am  on  my  road  to  Paris." 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  33^ 

"  And  she  will  be  yours  still?"  said  Legard,  turning  away 
his  face  :  "  well,  that  I  can  bear — may  you  be  happy,  sir  !  " 

"Stay,  Legard,"  said  Maltravcrs,  in  a  voice  of  great  feeling. 
**  Let  us  understand  each  other  better  :  you  have  renounced 
your  passion  to  your  sense  of  honor  (Maltravers  paused  thought- 
fully.)— It  was  noble  in  you,  it  was  more  than  just  to  me  ;  I 
thank  you  and  respect  you.  But,  Legard,  was  there  aught  in  the 
manner,  the  bearing  of  Evelyn  Cameron,  that  could  lead  you  to 
suppose  that  she  would  have  returned  your  affection  ?  True, 
had  we  started  on  equal  terms,  I  am  not  vain  enough  to  be  blind 
to  your  advantages  of  youth  and  person  ;  but  I  believed  that 
the  affections  of  Evelyn  were  already  mine,  before  we  met  at 
Paris." 

"  It  might  be  so,"  said  Legard,  gloomily  ;  "  nor  is  it  for  me 
to  say,  that  a  heart  so  pure  and  generous  as  Evelyn's  could 
deceive  yourself  or  me.  Yet  I  had  fancied — I  ^^</hoped — while 
you  stood  aloof,  that  that  partiality  with  which  she  regarded  you 
was  that  of  admiration  more  than  love  ;  that  you  had  dazzled 
her  imagination,  rather  than  won  her  heart.  I  had  hoped  that  I 
should  win,  that  I  was  winning,  my  way  to  her  affection  !  But 
let  this  pass  ;  I  drop  the  subject  for  ever — only,  Maltravers,  only 
do  me  justice.  You  are  a  proud  man,  and  your  pride  has  often 
irritated  and  stung  me,  in  spite  of  my  gratitude.  Be  more  lenient 
to  me  than  you  have  been  ;  think  that  though  I  have  my  errors 
and  my  follies,  I  am  still  capable  of  some  conquests  over  myself. 
And  most  sincerely  do  I  now  wish  that  Evelyn's  love  may  be  to 
you  that  blessing  it  would  have  been  to  me  !  " 

This  was,  indeed,  anew  triumph  over  the  pride  of  Maltravers — 
a  new  humiliation.  He  had  looked  with  a  cold  contempt  on 
this  man,  because  he  affected  not  to  be  above  the  herd:  and  this 
man  had  preceded  him  in  the  very  sacrifice  he  himself  meditated. 

"  Legard,"  said  Maltravers,  and  a  faint  blush  overspread  his 
face,  "you  rebuke  me  justly.  I  acknowledge  my  fault,  and  ask 
you  to  forgive  it.  From  this  night,  whatever  happens,  I  shall 
hold  it  a  honor  to  be  admitted  to  your  friendship  ;  from  this 
night,  George  Legard  never  shall  find  in  me  the  offences  of 
arrogance  and  harshness." 

Legard  wrung  the  hand  held  out  to  him  warmly,  but  made  no 
answer ;  his  heart  was  full,  and  he  would  not  trust  himself  to 
speak. 

"  You  think,  then,"  resumed  Maltravers,  in  a  more  thought- 
ful tone  ;  "  you  think  that  Evelyn  could  have  loved  you,  had 
my  pretensions  not  crossed  your  own  ?  And  you  think  also — 
pardon  me,  dear  Legard — that  you  could  have  acquired  the 


J38  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

Steadiness  of  character,  the  firmness  of  purpose,  which  one  so 
fair,  so  young,  so  inexperienced  and  susceptible,  so  surrounded 
by  a  thousand  temptations,  would  need  in  a  guardian  and 
protector  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  judge  of  me  by  what  I  have  been.  I  felt  that 
Evelyn  could  have  reformed  errors  worse  than  mine  ;  that  her 
love  would  have  elevated  dispositions  yet  more  light  and  com- 
monplace. You  do  not  know  what  miracles  love  works !  But 
now,  what  is  there  left  for  me?  What  matters  it  hov/  frivolous 
and  poor  the  occupations  which  can  distract  my  thoughts,  and 
bring  me  forgetf  ulness  ?  Forgive  me  ;  1  have  no  right  to  obtrude 
all  this  egotism  on  you." 

"  Do  not  despond,  Legard,"  said  Maltravers  kindly  ;  "  there 
may  be  better  fortunes  in  store  for  you  than  you  yet  anticipate. 
I  cannot  say  more  now  ;  but  will  you  remain  at  Dover  a  few  days 
longer  ?  Within  a  week  you  shall  hear  from  me.  I  will  not  raise 
hopes  that  it  may  not  be  mine  to  realize.  But  if  it  be  as  you 
think  it  was — why — little,  indeed,  would  rest  with  me.  Nay, 
look  not  on  me  so  wistfully,"  added  Maltravers,  with  a  mourn- 
ful smile  ;  "  and  let  the  subject  close  for  the  present.  You  will 
stay  at  Dover?" 

"I  will;  but—" 

"  No  buts,  Legard  ;  it  is  so  settled." 


BOOK   XI. 


'Av6pa7roc  tvepytrhQ  iretpvKog. — M.  AntoniN,  lib.  hr. 
Man  is  born  to  be  a  doer  of  good. 


CHAPTER  I. 

•        *        *     "  His  teeth  he  still  did  grind, 

And  grimly  gnash,  threatening  revenge  in  vain," — Spenser. 

It  is  now  time  to  return  to  Lord  Vargrave.  His  most  san- 
guine hopes  were  realized  ;  all  things  seemed  to  prosper.  The 
hand  of  Evelyn  Cameron  was  pledged  to  him — the  wedding- 
day  was  fixed.  In  less  than  a  week,  she  was  to  confer  upon 
the  ruined  peer  a  splendid  dowry,  that  would  smooth  all  ob- 
stacles in  the  ascent  of  his  ambition.     From   Mr.  Douce  he 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  339 

learned  that  the  deeds,  which  were  to  transfer  to  himself  the 
baronial  possessions  of  the  head  of  the  house  of  Mallravers, 
were  nearly  completed  ;  and,  on  his  wedding-day,  he  hoped  to 
be  able  to  announce  that  the  happy  pair  had  set  out  for  their 
princely  mansion  of  Lisle  Court.  In  politics — though  nothing 
could  be  finally  settled  till  his  return — letters  from  Lord  Sax- 
ingham  assured  him  that  all  was  auspicious :  the  court  and  the 
heads  of  the  aristocracy  daily  growing  more  alienated  from  the 
])remier,  and  more  prepared  for  a  cabinet  revolution.  And  Var- 
grave,  perhaps,  like  most  needy  men,  overrated  the  advan- 
tages he  should  derive  from,  and  the  servile  opinions  he  should 
conciliate  in,  his  new  character  of  landed  proprietor  and  wealthy 
peer.  He  Avas  not  insensible  to  the  silent  anguish  that  Evelyn 
seemed  to  endure,  nor  to  the  bitter  gloom  that  hung  on  the 
brow  of  Lady  Doltimore.  But  these  were  clouds  that  foretold 
no  storm — light  shadows  that  obscured  not  the  serenity  of  the 
favoring  sky.  He  continued  to  seem  unconscious  to  either  ; 
to  take  the  coming  event  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to  Evelyn  he 
evinced  so  gentle,  unfamiliar,  respectful,  and  delicate  an  at- 
tachment, that  he  left  no  opening  either  for  confidence  or  com- 
plaint. Poor  Evelyn  !  her  gayety,  her  enchanting  levity,  her 
sweet  and  infantine  playfulness  of  manner,  were  indeed  van- 
ished. Pale,  wan,  passive,  and  smileless,  she  was  the  ghost  of 
her  former  self  !  But  days  rolled  on,  and  the  evil  one  drew 
near  ;  she  recoiled,  but  she  never  dreamt  of  resisting.  How 
many  equal  victims  of  her  age  and  sex  does  the  altar  witness ! 

One  day,  at  early  noon,  Lord  Vargrave  took  his  way  to  Eve- 
lyn's. He  had  been  to  pay  a  political  visit  in  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain's,  and  he  was  now  slowly  crossing  the  more  quiet 
and  solitary  part  of  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries — his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  after  his  old,  unaltered  habit,  and  his  eyes 
downcast — when  suddenly  a  man,  who  was  seated  alone  be- 
neath one  of  the  trees,  and  who  had  for  some  moments  watched 
his  steps  with  an  anxious  and  wild  aspect,  rose  and  approached 
him.  Lord  Vargrave  was  not  conscious  of  the  intrusion,  till 
the  man  laid  his  hand  on  Vargrave's  arm,  and  exclaimed  : 

"It  is  he ! — it  is  !     Lumley  Ferrers,  we  meet  again !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  started  and  changed  color,  as  he  gazed  on 
the  intruder. 

"  Ferrers,"  continued  Cesarini  (for  it  was  he),  and  he  wound 
his  arm  firmly  into  Lord  Vargrave's  as  he  spoke  ;  "you  have 
not  changed ;  your  step  is  light — your  cheek  healthful ;  and 
yet  I  ! — you  can  scarcely  recognize  me.  Oh,  I  have  suffered 
so  horribly  since  we  parted  !     Why  is  this — why  have  I  been 


340  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

SO  heavily  visited  ! — and  why  have  you  gone  free  ?  Heaven 
is  not  just  !  " 

Castruccio  was  in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals  ;  but  there  was 
that  in  his  uncertain  eye,  ^nd  strange,  unnatural  voice,  which 
showed  that  a  breath  might  dissolve  the  avalanche.  Lord  Var- 
grave  looked  anxiously  round  ;  none  were  near ;  but  he  knew 
that  the  more  public  parts  of  the  garden  were  thronged,  and 
through  the  trees  he  saw  many  forms  moving  in  the  distance. 
He  felt  that  the  sound  of  his  voice  could  summon  assistance  in 
an  instant,  and  his  assurance  returned  to  him. 

"  My  poor  friend,"  said  he  soothingly,  as  he  quickened  his 
pace,  "  it  grieves  me  to  the  heart  to  see  you  look  ill :  do  not 
think  so  much  of  what  is  past." 

**  There  is  no  past  !  "  replied  Cesarini  gloomily.  "  The  Past 
is  my  Present !  And  I  have  thought  and  thought,  in  darkness 
and  in  chains,  over  all  that  I  have  endured — and  a  light  has 
broken  on  me  in  the  hours  when  they  told  me  I  was  mad ! 
Lumley  Ferrers,  it  was  not  for  my  sake  that  you  led  me,  devil 
as  you  are,  into  the  lowest  hell !  You  had  some  object  of  your 
own  to  serve  in  separating  her  from  Maltravers.  You  made  me 
your  instrument.  What  was  I  to  you  that  you  should  have  sinned 
for  my  sake  ?  Answer  me,  and  truly — if  those  lips  can  utter 
truth  !  " 

"Cesarini,"  returned  Vargrave,  in  his  blandest  accents,  "an- 
other time  we  will  converse  on  what  has  been  ;  believe  me,  my 
only  object  was  your  happiness,  combined,  it  may  be,  with  my 
hatred  of  your  rival." 

"  Liar  !  "  shouted  Cesarini,  grasping  Vargrave's  arm  with  the 
strength  of  growing  madness,  while  his  burning  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  his  tempter's  changing  countenance.  "  You,  too,  loved 
Florence — you,  too,  sought  her  hand — you  were  my  real  rival  !  " 

"  Hush  !  my  friend,  hush  !"  said  Vargrave,  seeking  to  shake 
off  the  gripe  of  the  maniac,  and  becoming  seriously  alarmed  ; 
"  we  are  approaching  the  crowded  part  of  the  gardens,  we  shall 
be  observed." 

"  And  why  are  men  made  my  foes  ?  Why  is  my  own  sister 
become  my  persecutor  ?  why  should  she  give  me  up  to  the  tor- 
turer and  the  dungeon  ?  Why  are  serpents  and  fiends  my  com- 
rades ?  Why  is  there  fire  in  my  brain  and  heart  ?  and  why  do 
you  go  free  and  enjoy  liberty  and  life  ?  Observed  ! — what  care 
you  for  observation  ?     All  men  search  for  me!" 

"  Then  why  so  openly  expose  yourself  to  their  notice  ? 
Why—" 

"  Hear  me  !  "  interrupted  Cesarini.     "  When  I  escaped  from 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  34I 

the  horrible  prison  into  which  I  was  pkinged — when  I  scented 
the  fresh  air,  and  bounded  over  the  grass — when  I  was  again 
free  in  limbs  and  spirit — a  sudden  strain  of  music  from  a  vil- 
lage came  on  my  ear,  and  I  stopped  short,  and  crouched  down, 
and  held  my  breath  to  listen.  It  ceased  ;  and  I  thought  I  had 
been  with  Florence,  and  I  wept  bitterly  !  When  I  recovered, 
memory  came  back  to  me  distinct  and  clear  ;  and  I  heard  a 
voice  say  to  me,  '  Avenge  her  and  thyself  ! '  From  that  hour  the 
voice  has  been  heard  again,  morning  and  night  !  Lumley  Fer- 
rers, I  hear  it  now  !  it  speaks  to  my  heart — it  warms  my  blood — 
it  nerves  my  hand  !  On  whom  should  vengeance  fall  ? 
Speak  to  me  !  " 

Lumley  strode  rapidly  on;  they  were  now  without  the  grove: 
a  gay  throng  was  before  them.  "All  is  safe," thought  the  Eng- 
lishman. He  turned  abruptly  and  haughtily  on  Cesarini,  and 
waved  his  hand: — *' Begone,  madman  !  "  said  he,  in  a  loud  and 
stern  voice, — "  begone  !  vex  me  no  more,  or  I  give  you  into  cus- 
tody.    Begone,  I  say ! " 

Cesarini  halted,  amazed  and  awed  for  the  moment;  and  then, 
with  a  dark  scowl  and  a  low  cry,  threw  himself  on  Vargrave. 
The  eye  and  hand  of  the  latter  were  vigilant  and  prepared:  he 
grasped  the  lifted  arm  of  the  maniac,  and  shouted  for  help. 
But  the  madman  was  now  in  his  full  fury;  he  hurled  Vargrave 
to  the  ground  with  a  force  for  vvhich  the  peer  was  not  prepared — 
and  Lumley  might  never  have  risen  a  living  man  from  that  spot, 
if  two  soldiers,  seated  close  by,  had  not  hastened  to  his  assist- 
ance. Cesarini  was  already  kneeling  on  his  breast,  and  his  long 
bony  fingers  were  fastening  upon  the  throat  of  his  intended  vic- 
tim. Torn  from  his  hold,  he  glared  fiercely  on  his  new  assail- 
ants; and,  after  a  fierce  and  momentary  struggle,  wrested  him- 
self from  their  gripe.  Then,  turning  round  to  Vargrave,  who 
had  with  some  effort  risen  from  the  ground, he  shrieked  out,  "I 
shall  have  thee  yet ! "  and  fled  through  the  trees  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  IL 

*'  Ah  !  who  is  nigh  ? — Come  to  me,  friend  or  foe! 
My  parks,  my  walks,  my  manors  that  I  had— 
Ev'n  now  forsake  me." — Henry  VI.,  Third  Part. 

Lord  Vargrave,  bold  as  he  was  by  nature,  in  vain  endeav- 
ored to  banish  from  his  mind  the  gloomy  impression  which  the 
Startling  interview  with  Cesarini  had  bequeathed.    The  face, . 


342  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

the  voice  of  the  maniac,  haunted  him,  as  the  shape  of  tlie  warn- 
ing wraith  haunts  the  mountaineer.  He  returned  at  once  to  his 
hotel,  unable  for  some  hours  to  collect  himself  sufficiently  to 
pay  his  customary  visit  to  Miss  Cameron.  Inly  resolving  not  to 
hazard  a  second  meeting  with  the  Italian  during  the  rest  of  his 
sojourn  at  Paris,  by  venturing  in  the  streets  on  foot,  he  ordered 
his  carriage  towards  evening — dined  at  the  CaJ^  de  Paris;  and 
then  re-entered  his  carriage  to  proceed  to  Lady  Doltimore's 
house. 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,"  said  his  servant,  as  he  closed 
the  carriage  door,  "  but  I  forgot  to  say  that,  a  short  time  after 
you  returned  this  morning,  a  strange  gentleman  asked  at  the 
porter's  lodge  if  Mr.  Ferrers  was  not  staying  at  the  hotel.  The 
porter  said  there  was  no  Mr.  Ferrers — but  the  gentleman  in- 
sisted that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Ferrers  enter,  I  was  in  the  lodge 
at  the  moment,  my  lord,  and  I  explained — " 

"  That  Mr.  Ferrers  and  Lord  Vargrave  are  one  and  the  same  ? 
What  sort  of  a  looking  person?" 

"Thin  and  dark,  my  lord — evidently  a  foreigner.  When  I 
said  that  you  were  now  Lord  Vargrave,  he  stared  a  moment, 
and  said,  very  abruptly,  that  he  recollected  it  perfectly — and 
then  he  laughed  and  walked  away." 

"  Did  he  not  ask  to  see  me  ? " 

"No,  my  lord;,  he  said  he  should  take  another  opportunity. 
He  was  a  strange-looking  gentleman — and  his  clothes  were 
threadbare." 

"Ah  !  some  troublesome  petitioner.  Perhaps  a  Pole  in  dis- 
tress !  Remember  I  am  never  at  home  when  he  calls.  Shut 
the  door.     To  Lady  Doltimore's." 

Lumley's  heart  beat  as  he  threw  himself  back — he  again  felt 
the  gripe  of  the  madman  at  his  throat.  He  saw,  at  once,  that 
Cesarini  had  dogged  him — he  resolved  the  next  morning  to 
change  his  hotel,  and  to  apply  to  the  police.  It  was  strange 
how  sudden  and  keen  a  fear  had  entered  the  breast  of  this  cal- 
lous and  resolute  man ! 

On  arriving  at  Lady  Doltimore's  he  found  Caroline  alone  in 
the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  tete-a-tete  that  he  by  no  means  de- 
sired. 

"  Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline  coldly,  "  I  wished  a  short 
conversation  with  you — and  finding  you  did  not  come  in  the 
morning,  I  sent  you  a  note  an  hour  ago.     Did  you  receive  it  ?  " 

"  No — I  have  been  from  home  since  six  o'clock — it  is  now 
nine." 

"  Well,  then,  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline,  with  a  compressed  and 


AUCE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  343 

writhing  lip,  and  turning  very  pale — "  I  tremble  to  tell  you  that 
I  fear  Doltimore  suspects.  He  looked  at  me  sternly  this  morn- 
ing, and  said,  'You  seem  unhappy,  madam this  marriage  of 

Lord  Vargrave's  distresses  you  ! '" 

"  I  warned  you  how  it  would  be — your  own  selfishness  will 
betray  and  ruin  you." 

"  Do  not  reproach  me,  man  ! "  said  Lady  Doltimore,  with 
great  vehemence.  "From  you  at  least  I  have  a  right  to  pity — 
to  forbearance — to  succor.     I  will  not  bear  reproach  from  you." 

"  I  reproach  you  for  your  own  sake — for  the  faults  you  com- 
mit against  yourself — and  I  must  say,  Caroline,  that  after  I  had 
generously  conquered  all  selfish  feeling,  and  assisted  you  to  so 
desirable  and  even  brilliant  a  position,  it  is  neither  just  nor  high- 
minded  in  you  to  evince  so  ungracious  a  reluctance  to  my  tak- 
ing the  only  step  which  can  save  me  from  actual  ruin.  But  what 
does  Doltimore  suspect?  What  ground  has  he  for  suspicion, 
beyond  that  want  of  command  of  countenance  which  it  is  easy 
to  explain — and  which  it  is  yet  easier  for  a  woman  and  a  great 
lady  (here  Lumley  sneered)  to  acquire?" 

"  I  know  not — it  has  been  put  into  his  head.  Paris  is  so  full 
of  slander.  But — Vargrave — Lumley — I  tremble — I  shudder 
with  terror — if  ever  Doltimore  should  discover — " 

"  Pooh — pooh  !  Our  conduct  at  Paris  has  been  most  guard- 
ed— most  discreet.  Doltimore  is  Self-conceit  personified — and 
Self-conceit  is  horn-eyed.  I  am  about  to  leave  Paris — about  to 
marry,  from  under  your  own  roof ;  a  little  prudence — a  little 
self-control — a  smiling  face,  v/hen  you  wish  us  happiness,  and 
so  forth,  and  all  is  safe.  Tush!  think  of  it  no  more — Fate  has 
cut  and  shuffled  the  cards  for  you — the  game  is  yours  unless  you 
revoke — pardon  my  metaphor — it  is  a  favorite  one — I  have  worn 
it  threadbare — but  human  life /V  so  like  a  rubber  at  whist.  Where 
is  Evelyn  ?" 

"In  her  own  room.     Have  you  no  pity  for  her?" 

"She  will  be  very  happy  when  she  is  Lady  Vargrave;  and  for 
the  rest,  I  shall  neither  be  a  stern  nor  a  jealous  husband.  She 
might  not  have  given  the  same  character  to  the  magnificent  Mal- 
travers." 

Here  Evelyn  entered ;  and  Vargrave  hastened  to  press  her 
hand — to  whisper  tender  salutations  and  compliments — to  draw 
the  easy-chair  to  the  fire — to  place  the  footstool — to  lavish  the 
pefi'/s  soins  that  are  so  agreeable,  when  they  are  the  small  mo- 
ralities of  love. 

Evelyn  was  more  than  usually  pale — more  than  usually  ab- 
stracted.    There  was  no  lustre  in  her  eyes — no  life  in  her  step; 


344  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

she  seemed  unconscious  of  the  crisis  to  which  she  approached. 
As  the  myrrh  and  hyssop  which  drugged  the  malefactors  of  old 
into  forgetfulness  of  their  doom,  so  there  are  griefs  which  stu- 
pify  before  their  last  and  crowning  consummation  ! 

Vargrave  conversed  lightly  on  the  weather,  the  news,  the  last 
book.  Evelyn  answered  but  in  monosyllables ;  and  Caroline, 
with  a  hand-screen  before  her  face,  preserved  an  unbroken  si- 
lence. Thus,  gloomy  and  joyless  were  two  of  the  party — thus, 
gay  and  animated  the  third,  when  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
struck  ten  ;  and,  as  the  last  stroke  died,  and  Evelyn  sighed 
heavily — for  it  was  an  hour  nearer  to  the  fatal  day — the  door 
was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and,  pushing  aside  the  servant,  two 
gentlemen  entered  the  room. 

Caroline,  the  first  to  perceive  them,  started  from  her  seat  with 
a  faint  exclamation  of  surprise.  Vargrave  turned  abruptly,  and 
saw  before  him  the  stern  countenance  of  Maltravers. 

"  My  child  ! — my  Evelyn  !  "  exclaimed  a  familiar  voice  ;  and 
Evelyn  had  already  flown  into  the  arms  of  Aubrey. 

The  sight  of  the  curate,  in  company  with  Maltravers,  explained 
all  at  once  to  Vargrave.  He  saw  that  the  mask  was  torn  from 
his  face — the  prize  snatched  from  his  grasp — his  falsehood 
known — his  plot  counterworked — his  villany  baffled  !  He 
struggled  in  vain  for  self-composure — all  his  resources  of  courage 
and  craft  seemed  drained  and  exhausted.  Livid,  speechless, 
almost  trembling — he  cowered  beneath  the  eyes  of  Maltravers. 

Evelyn,  not  as  yet  aware  of  the  presence  of  her  former  lover, 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  She  lifted  her  face  in  alarm 
from  the  bosom  of  the  good  curate — "  My  mother — she  is  well — • 
she  lives — what  brings  you  hither?" 

"  Your  mother  is  well,  my  child.  I  have  come  hither  at  her 
earnest  request,  to  save  you  from  a  marriage  with  that  un- 
worthy man  ! " 

Lord  Vargrave  smiled  a  ghastly  smile,  but  made  no  answer. 

"Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "you  will  feel  at  once  that 
you  have  no  further  business  under  this  roof.  Let  us  withdraw — • 
I  have  much  to  thank  you  for." 

"  I  will  not  stir ! "  exclaimed  Vargrave  passionately,  and 
stamping  on  the  floor.  "Miss  Cameron,  the  guest  of  Lady 
Doltimore,  whose  house  and  presence  you  thus  rudely  profane, 
is  my  affianced  bride — affianced  with  her  own  consent.  Eve- 
lyn— beloved  Evelyn  !  mine  you  are  yet — you  alone  can  cancel 
the  bond.  Sir,  I  know  not  what  you  have  to  say — what  mystery 
in  your  immaculate  life  to  disclose  ;  but  unless  Lady  Doltimore, 
whom  your  violence  appals  and  terrifies,  orders  me  to  quit  her 


ALICE  ;    Ok,  THE  MYSTERIES.  34S 

roof,  it  is  not  I — it  is  yourself,  who  is  the  intruder !  Lady  Dolti- 
more,  with  your  permission,  I  will  direct  your  servants  to  con- 
duct this  gentleman  to  his  carriage  !  " 

*'  Lady  Doltimore,  pardon  me,"  said  Maltravers  coldly  ;  "  I 
will  not  be  urged  to  any  failure  of  respect  to  you.  My  lord,  if 
the  most  abject  cowardice  be  not  added  to  your  other  vices  you 
will  not  make  this  room  the  theatre  for  our  altercation.  I 
invite  you,  in  those  terms  which  no  gentleman  ever  yet  refused, 
to  withdraw  with  me." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  Maltravers  exercised  a  strange  con- 
trol over  Vargrave ;  he  endeavored  in  vain  to  keep  alive  the 
passion  into  which  he  had  sought  to  work  himself — his  voice 
faltered,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast.  Between  these  two 
personages,  none  interfered, — around  them,  all  present  grouped 
in  breathless  silence :  Caroline,  turning  her  eyes  from  one  to 
the  other  in  wonder  and  dismay  ;  Evelyn,  believing  all  a  dream, 
yet  alive  only  to  the  thought  that,  by  some  merciful  interposi- 
tion of  Providence,  she  should  escape  the  consequences  of  her 
own  rashness — clinging  to  Aubrey,  with  her  gaze  riveted  on  Mal- 
travers ;  and  Aubrey,  whose  gentle  character  was  borne  down 
and  silenced  by  the  powerful  and  tempestuous  passions  that  now 
met  in  collision  and  conflict,  withheld  by  his  abhorrence  of  Var- 
grave's  treachery  from  his  natural  desire  to  propitiate,  and  yet 
appalled  by  the  apprehension  of  bloodshed,  that  for  the  first  time 
crossed  him. 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence,  in  which  Vargrave 
seemed  to  be  nerving  and  collecting  himself  for  such  course  as 
might  be  best  to  pursue,  when  again  the  door  opened,  and  the 
name  of  Mr.  Howard  was  announced. 

Hurried  and  agitated,  the  young  secretary,  scarcely  noticing 
the  rest  of  the  party,  rushed  to  Lord  Vargrave. 

"My  lord  ! — a  thousand  pardons  for  interrupting  you — busi- 
ness of  such  importance  ! — I  am  so  fortunate  to  find  you  ! " 

"What  is  the  matter,  sir?" 

"  These  letters,  my  lord  ;  I  have  so  much  to  say  !  " 

Any  interruption,  even  an  earthquake,  at  that  moment  must 
have  been  welcome  to  Vargrave.  He  bent  his  head,  with  a  po- 
lite smile,  linked  his  arm  into  his  secretary's,  and  withdrew  to 
the  recess  of  the  furthest  window.  Not  a  minute  elapsed,  before 
he  turned  away  with  a  look  of  scornful  exultation.  "Mr. 
Howard,"  said  he,  "go  and  refresh  yourself,  and  come  to  meat 
twelve  o'clock  to-night ;  I  shall  be  at  home  then." 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Vargrave  to  Maltravers,  "I  am  willing  to 
leave  you  in  possession  of  the  field.     Miss  Cameron,  it  will  be, 


34^  ALICE  ;    OR,  tHE  MYSTEfelES. 

I  fear,  impossible  for  me  to  entertain  any  longer  the  bright  hopes 
I  had  once  formed  ;  my  cruel  fate  compels  me  to  seek  wealth  in 
any  matrimonial  engagement.  I  regret  to  inform  you,  that  you 
are  no  longer  the  great  heiress  :  the  whole  of  your  capital  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Douce  for  the  completion  of  the  pur- 
chase of  Lisle  Court.  Mr.  Douce  is  a  bankrupt;  he  has  fled  to 
America.  This  letter  is  an  express  from  my  lawyer  ;  the  house 
has  closed  its  payments  ! — Perhaps  we  may  hope  to  obtain  six- 
pence in  the  pound.  I  am  a  loser  also  ;  the  forfeit  money  be- 
queathed to  me  is  gone.  I  know  not  whether,  as  your  trustee, 
1  am  not  accountable  for  the  loss  of  your  fortune  (drawn  out  on 
my  responsibility);  probably  so.  But  as  I  have  not  now  a  shil- 
ling in  the  world,  I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Maltravers  will  advise 
you  to  institute  proceedings  against  me.  Mr.  Maltravers,  to- 
morrow, at  nine  o'clock,  I  will  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say. 
I  wish  you  all  good-night."  He  bowed — seized  his  hat — and 
vanished. 

"  Evelyn,"  said  Aubrey,  "  can  you  require  to  learn  more — do 
you  not  already  feel  you  are  released  from  union  with  a  man 
without  heart  and  honor?" 

"Yes,  yes!  I  am  so  happy!"  cried  Evelyn,  bursting  into 
tears.  "  This  hated  wealth — I  feel  not  its  loss — I  am  released 
from  all  duty  to  my  benefactor.     I  am  free  ! " 

The  last,  tie  that  had  yet  united  the  guilty  Caroline  to  Var- 
grave  was  broken — a  woman  forgives  sin  in  her  lover,  but  never 
meanness.  The  degrading,  the  abject  position  in  which  she 
had  seen  one  whom  she  had  served  as  a  slave  (though,  as  yet, 
all  his  worst  villanies  were  unknown  to  her),  filled  her  with 
shame,  horror,  and  disgust.  She  rose  abruptly  and  quitted  the 
room.     They  did  not  miss  her. 

Maltravers  approached  Evelyn ;  he  took  her  hand,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  heart. 

"  Evelyn,"  said  he  mournfully,  "you  require  an  explanation — 
to-morrow  I  will  give  and  seek  it.  To-night  we  are  both  too 
unnerved  for  such  communications.  I  can  only  now  feel  joy  at 
your  escape,  and  hope  that  I  may  still  minister  to  your  future 
happiness." 

"  But,"  said  Aubrey,  "can  we  believe  this  new  and  astounding 
statement  ?  can  this  loss  be  so  irremediable? — may  we  not  yet 
take  precaution,  and  save,  at  least,  some  wrecks  of  this  noble 
fortune?" 

"I  thank  you  for  recalling  me  to  the  world,"  said  Maltravers 
eagerly.  "  I  will  see  to  it  this  instant ;  and  to-morrow,  Evelyn, 
after  my  interview  with  you,  I   will  hasten   to    London,  and 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  347 

act  in  that  capacity  still  left  to  me — your  guardian — your 
friend." 

He  turned  away  liis  face,  and  hurried  to  the  door. 

Evelyn  clung  more  closely  to  Aubrey — "  But  you  will  not  leave 
me  to-night  ? — you  can  stay — we  can  find  you  accommodation — 
do  not  leave  me." 

"Leave  you,  my  child  ! — no — we  have  a  thousand  things  to 
say  to  each  other,  I  will  not,"  he  added  in  a  whisper,  turning 
to  Maltravers,  "forestall  your  communications." 


CHAPTER  HI. 

"  Alack,  'tis  he.     Why,  he  was  met  even  now 
As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea. — Lear. 

In  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  there  resided  an  English  lawyer  of 
eminence,  with  whom  Maltravers  had  had  previous  dealings, — 
to  this  gentleman  he  now  drove.  He  acquainted  him  with  the 
news  he  had  just  heard,  respecting  the  bankruptcy  of  Mr. 
Douce  ;  and  commissioned  him  to  leave  Paris,  the  first  moment 
he  could  obtain  a  passport,  and  to  proceed  to  London.  At  all 
events,  he  would  arrive  there  some  hours  before  Maltravers ; 
and  those  hours  were  something  gained.     This  done,  he  drove 

to  the  nearest  hotel,  which  chanced  to  be  the  Hotel  de  M , 

where,  though  he  knew  it  not,  it  so  happened  that  Lord  Var- 
grave  himself  lodged.  As  his  carriage  stopped  without,  while 
the  porter  unclosed  the  gates,  a  man,  who  had  been  loitering 
under  the  lamps,  darted  forward,  and  prying  into  the  carriage 
window,  regarded  Maltravers  earnestly.  The  latter,  pre-occu- 
pied  and  absorbed,  did  not  notice  him  ;  but  when  the  carriage 
drove  into  the  courtyard,  it  was  follpwed  by  the  stranger,  who 
was  mufiled  in  a  worn  and  tattered  cloak,  and  whose  movements 
were  unheeded  amidst  the  bustle  of  the  arrival.  The  porter's 
wife  led  the  way  to  a  second-floor,  just  left  vacant,  and  the 
waiter  began  to  arrange  the  fire.  Maltravers  threw  himself  ab- 
stractedly upon  the  sofa,  insensible  to  all  around  him — when, 
lifting  his  eyes,  he  saw  before  him  the  countenance  of  Cesarini ! 
The  Italian  (supposed,  perhaps,  by  the  persons  of  the  hotel,  to 
be  one  of  the  new-comers)  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  a  chair, 
supporting  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  fixing  his  eyes  with  an 
earnest  and  sorrowful  expression  upon  the  features  of  his  ancient 
rival.  When  he  perceived  that  he  was  recognized,  he  approached 
Maltravers,  and  said  in  Italian,  and  in  alow  voice,  "You  are  the 
n^an  pf  ^U  ptherSj  whom,  save  one,  I  most  desir?4  ^9  see.     J  h^y§ 


348  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

much  to  say  to  you,  and  my  time  is  short.     Spare  me  a  few 

minutes." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  Cesarini  were  so  calm  and  rational, 
that  they  changed  the  first  impulse  of  Maltravers,  which  was  that 
of  securing  a  maniac  :  while  the  Italian's  emaciated  countenance 
— his  squalid  garments — the  air  of  penury  and  want  diffused  over 
his  whole  appearance — irresistibly  invited  his  compassion.  With 
all  the  more  anxious  and  pressing  thoughts  that  weighed  upon 
him,  Maltravers  could  not  refuse  the  conference  thus  demanded. 
He  dismissed  the  attendants,  and  motioned  Cesarini  to  be  seated. 

The  Italian  drew  near  to  the  fire,  which  now  blazed  brightly 
and  cheerily,  and,  spreading  his  thin  hands  to  the  flame,  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  physical  luxury  of  the  warmth.  "Cold — cold,"  he 
said  piteously,  as  to  himself ;  "  Nature  is  a  very  bitter  protector. 
But  frost  and  famine  are,  at  least,  more  merciful  than  slavery 
and  darkness." 

At  this  moment  Ernest's  servant  entered  to  know  if  his  master 
would  not  take  refreshments,  for  he  had  scarcely  touched  food 
upon  the  road.  And,  as  he  spoke,  Cesarini  turned  keenly  and 
wistfully  round.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  appeal.  Wine  and 
cold  meat  were  ordered:  and  when  the  servant  vanished,  Cesarini 
turned  to  Maltravers  with  a  strange  smile,  and  said  :  "You  see 
what  the  love  of  liberty  brings  men  to !  They  found  me  plenty 
in  the  gaol !  But  I  have  read  of  men  who  feasted  merrily  before 
execution — have  not  you  ? — and  my  hour  is  at  hand.  All  this 
day  I  have  felt  chained  by  an  irresistible  destiny  to  this  house. 
But  it  was  not  you  I  sought ;  no  matter,  in  the  crisis  of  our  doom 
all  its  agents  meet  together.     It  is  the  last  act  of  a  dreary  play !  " 

The  Italian  turned  again  to  the  fire,  and  bent  over  it,  mut- 
tering to  himself. 

Maltravers  remained  silent  and  thoughtful.  Now  was  the 
moment  once  more  to  place  the  maniac  under  the  kindly  vigil- 
ance of  his  family — to  snatch  him  from  the  horrors,  perhaps  of 
starvation  itself,  to  which  his  escape  had  condemned  him  :  if  he 
could  detain  Cesarini  till  De  Montaigne  could  arrive ! 

Agreeably  to  this  thought,  he  quietly  drew  towards  him  the 
portfolio  which  had  been  laid  on  the  table — and,  Cesarini's  back 
still  turned  to  him,  wrote  a  hasty  line  to  De  Montaigne.  When 
his  servant  re-entered  with  the  wine  and  viands,  Maltravers  fol- 
lowed him  out  of  the  room,  and  bade  him  see  the  note  sent  im- 
mediately. On  returning,  he  found  Cesarini  devouring  the  food 
before  him  with  all  the  voracity  of  famine.  It  was  a  dreadful 
sight! — the  intellect  ruined — the  mind  darkened — the  wild, 
fierce  animal  alone  left ! 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  349 

Wlien  Cesarini  had  appeased  his  hunger,  he  [drew  near  to 
Maltravers,  and  thus  accosted  him  : 

"  I  must  lead  you  back  to  the  past.  I  sinned  against  you  and 
the  dead :  but  Heaven  has  avenged  you,  and  me  you  can  pity 
and  forgive.  Maltravers,  there  is  another  more  guilty  than  I — 
but  proud,  prosperous,  and  great.     His  crime  Heaven  has  left 

to  the  revenge  of  man  ! 1  bound  myself  by  an  oath  not  to 

reveal  his  villany.  I  cancel  the  oath  now,  for  the  knowledge 
of  it  should  survive  his  life  and  mine.  And,  mad  though  they 
deem  me — the  mad  are  prophets — and  a  solemn  conviction,  a 
voice  not  of  earth,  tells  me  that  he  and  I  are  already  in  the 
Shadow  of  Death." 

Here  Cesarini  with  a  calm  and  precise  accuracy  of  self-pos- 
session,— a  minuteness  of  circumstance  and  detail,  that,  coming 
from  one  whose  very  eyes  betrayed  his  terrible  disease,  was  in- 
finitely thrilling  in  its  effect, — related  the  counsels,  the  per- 
suasion, the  stratagems  of  Lumley.  Slowly  and  distinctly  he 
forced  into  the  heart  of  Maltravers  that  sickening  record  of 
cold  fraud,  calculating  on  vehement  passion  as  its  tool ;  and 
thus  he  concluded  his  narration  : 

"  Now,  wonder  no  longer  why  I  have  lived  till  this  hour — 
why  I  have  clung  to  freedom,  through  want  and  hunger,  amidst 
beggars,  felons,  and  outcasts !  In  that  freedom  was  my  last 
hope — the  hope  of  revenge  !  " 

Maltravers  returned  no  answer  for  some  moments.  At  length 
he  said  calmly:  "Cesarini,  there  are  injuries  so  great,  that  they 
defy  revenge.  Let  us  alike,  since  we  are  alike  injured,  trust 
our  cause  to  Him  who  reads  all  hearts,  and,  better  than  we  can 
do,  measures  both  crime  and  its  excuses.  You  think  that  our 
enemy  has  not  suffered — that  he  has  gone  free.  We  know  not 
his  internal  history — prosperity  and  power  are  no  signs  of  hap- 
piness, they  bring  no  exemption  from  care.  Be  soothed  and 
be  ruled,  Cesarini.  Let  the  stone  once  more  close  over  the 
solemn  grave.  Turn  with  me  to  the  future ;  and  let  us  rather 
seek  to  be  the  judges  of  ourselves,  than  the  executioners  of 
another." 

Cesarini  listened  gloomily,  and  was  about  to  answer,  when— 

But  here  we  must  return  to  Lord  Vargrave. 


35©  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

♦  *        *     "  My  noble  lord. 

Your  worthy  friends  do  lack  you." — Macbeth. 

*  *        *    "  He  is  about  it : 
The  doors  are  open." — Ibid. 

On  quitting  Lady  Doltimore's  house,  Lumley  drove  to  his 
hotel.  His  secretary  had  been  the  bearer  of  other  communica- 
tions, with  the  nature  of  which  he  had  not  yet  acquainted  him- 
self. But  he  saw  by  the  superscriptions  that  they  were  of  great 
importance.  Still,  however,  even  in  the  solitude  and  privacy 
of  his  own  chamber,  it  was  not  on  the  instant  that  he  could 
divert  his  thoughts  from  the  ruin  of  his  fortunes  :  the  loss  not 
only  of  Evelyn's  property,  but  his  own  claims  upon  it  (for  the 
whole  capital  had  been  placed  in  Douce's  hands) — the  total 
wreck  of  his  grand  scheme — the  triumph  he  had  afforded  to 
Maltravers !  He  ground  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage,  and  groaned 
aloud,  as  he  traversed  his  room  with  hasty  and  uneven  strides. 
At  last  he  paused  and  muttered,  **  Well,  the  spider  toils  on  even 
when  its  very  power  of  weaving  fresh  webs  is  exhausted  ;  it  lies 
in  wait — it  forces  itself  into  the  webs  of  others.  Brave  insect, 
thou  art  my  model ! — While  I  have  breath  in  my  bod)'',  the  world 
and  all  its  crosses — Fortune  and  all  her  malignity — shall  not 
prevail  against  me  !  What  man  ever  yet  failed  until  he  him- 
self grew  craven,  and  sold  his  soul  to  the  arch  fiend,  Despair ! — 
'Tis  but  a  girl  and  a  fortune  lost — they  were  gallantly  fought 
for,  that  is  some  comfort.     Now  to  what  is  yet  left  to  me  !  " 

The  first  letter  Lumley  opened  was  from  Lord  Saxingham. 
It  filled  him  with  dismay.  The  question  at  issue  had  been 
formally,  but  abruptly,  decided  in  the  cabinet  against  Vargrave 
and  his  manoeuvres.  Some  hasty  expressions  of  Lord  Saxing- 
ham had  been  instantly  caught  at  by  the  premier,  and  a  resig- 
nation, rather  hinted  at  than  declared,  had  been  peremptorily 
accepted.  Lord  Saxingham  and  Lumley's  adherents  in  the 
government  were  to  a  man  dismissed ;  and,  at  the  time  Lord 
Saxingham  wrote,  the  premier  was  with  the  King. 

"  Curse  their  folly  ! — the  puppets  ! — the  dolts  ! "  exclaimed 
Lumley,  crushing  the  letter  in  his  hand.  *'  The  moment  I  leave 
them,  they  run  their  heads  against  the  wall.  Curse  them — curse 
myself — curse  the  man  who  weaves  ropes  with  sand  !  Nothing — 
nothing  left  for  me,  but  exile  or  suicide  ! — Stay,  what  is  this?" — 
His  eye  fell  on  the  well-known  handwriting  of  the  premier.  He 
tore  the  envelope,  impatient  to  know  the  worst.     His  eyes 


AiiCE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTEkiES.  351 

Sparkled  as  he  proceeded.  The  letter  was  most  courteous, 
most  complimentary,  most  wooing.  The  minister  was  a  man 
consummately  versed  in  the  arts  that  increase,  as  well  as  those 
which  purge,  a  party.  Saxingham  and  his  friends  were  im- 
beciles— incapables — mostly  men  who  had  outlived  their  day. 
But  Lord  Vargrave,  in  the  prime  of  life — versatile,  accomplished, 
vigorous,  bitter,  unscrupulous — Vargrave  was  of  another  mould 
— Vargrave  was  to  be  dreaded  ;  and,  therefore,  if  possible,  to 
be  retained.  His  powers  of  mischief  were  unquestionably  in- 
creased by  the  universal  talk  of  London,  that  he  was  about 
soon  to  wed  so  wealthy  a  lady.  The  minister  knew  this  man. 
In  terms  of  affected  regret,  he  alluded  to  the  loss  the  govern- 
ment would  sustain  in  the  services  of  Lord  Saxingham,  etc, — 
he  rejoiced  that  Lord  Vargrave's  absence  from  London  had 
prevented  his  being  prematurely  mixed  up,  by  false  scruples  of 
honor,  in  secessions  which  his  judgment  must  condemn.  He 
treated  of  the  question  in  dispute  with  tlie  most  delicate  address ; 
confessed  the  reasonableness  of  Lord  Vargrave's  former  oppo- 
sition to  it ;  but  contended  that  it  was  now,  if  not  wise,  inevit- 
able. He  said  nothing  of  the/usfi'ce  of  the  measure  he  pro- 
posed to  adopt,  but  much  on  the  expediency.  He  concluded  by 
offering  to  Vargrave,  in  the  most  cordial  and  flattering  terms, 
the  very  seat  in  the  cabinet  which  Lord  Saxingham  had  vacated, 
with  an  apology  for  its  inadequacy  to  his  lordship's  merits,  and 
a  distinct  and  definite  promise  of  the  refusal  of  the  gorgeous 
viceroyalty  of  India — which  would  be  vacant  next  year,  by  the 
return  of  the  present  governor-general. 

Unprincipled  as  Vargrave  was,  it  is  not,  perhaps,  judging 
him  too  mildly  to  say,  that  had  he  succeeded  in  obtaining 
Evelyn's  hand  and  fortune,  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the 
baseness  he  now  meditated.  To  step  coldly  into  the  very  post 
of  which  he,  and  he  alone,  had  been  the  cause  of  depriving  his 
earliest  patron  and  nearest  relative — to  profit  by  the  betrayal 
of  his  own  party — to  damn  himself  eternally  in  the  eyes  of  his 
ancient  friends — to  pass  down  the  stream  of  history  as  a  mer- 
cenary apostate  ;  from  all  this  Vargrave  must  have  shrunk,  had 
he  seen  one  spot  of  honest  ground  on  which  to  maintain  his 
footing.  But  now  the  waters  of  the  abyss  were  closing  over  his 
head  ;  he  would  have  caught  at  a  straw  ;  how  much  more  con- 
sent to  be  picked  up  by  the  vessel  of  an  enemy  !  All  objection, 
all  scruple,  vanished  at  once.  And  the  *'  barbaric  gold  "  "  of 
Ormus  and  of  Ind  "  glittered  before  the  greedy  eyes  of  the  pen- 
niless adventurer  !  Not  a  day  was  now  to  be  lost :  how  fortu- 
nate that  a  written  proposition,  from  which  it  was  impossible  to 


352  ALICE;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

recede,  had  been  made  to  him,  before  the  failure  of  his  matri- 
monial projects  had  become  known  !  Too  happy  to  quit  Paris, 
he  would  set  off  on  the  morrow,  and  conclude  in  person  the 
negotiation.  Vargrave  glanced  towards  the  clock,  it  was  scarcely 
past  eleven;  wliat  revolutions  are  worked  in  moments  !  Within 
an  hour  he  had  lost  a  wife — a  noble  fortune — changed  the  poli- 
tics of  his  whole  life — stepped  into  a  cabinet  office — and  was 
already  calculating  how  much  a  governor-general  of  India  could 
lay  by  in  five  years  !  But  it  was  only  eleven  o'clock — he  had 
put  off  Mr.  Howard's  visit  till  twelve — he  wished  so  much  to 
see  him,  and  learn  all  the  London  gossip  connected  with  the 
recent  events.  Poor  Mr.  Douce  ! — Vargrave  had  already  for- 
gotten his  existence  ! — he  rang  his  bell  hastily.  It  was  some 
time  before  his  servant  answered. 

Promptitude  and  readiness  were  virtues  that  Lord  Vargrave 
peremptorily  demanded  in  a  servant ;  and  as  he  paid  the  best 
price  for  the  articles — less  in  wages  than  in  plunder — he  was 
generally  sure  to  obtain  them. 

"Where  the  deuce  have  you  been  ?  this  is  the  third  time  I 
have  rung  !  you  ought  to  be  in  the  anteroom  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon  ;  but  I  was  helping  Mr.  Mal- 
travers's  valet  to  find  a  key  which  he  dropped  in  the  court- 
yard." 

**  Mr.  Maltravers  !     Is  he  at  this  hotel  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord  ;  his  rooms  are  just  overhead." 

"  Humph  ! — Has  Mr.  Howard  engaged  a  lodging  here  t" 

"  No,  my  lord.  He  left  word  that  he  was  gone  to  his  aunt, 
Lady  Jane." 

"  Ah  ! — Lady  Jane — lives  at  Paris — so  she  does — Rue  de 
Chaussee  d'Antin — you  know  the  house  ? — go  immediately — 
go  yourself — don't  trust  to  a  messenger — and  beg  Mr.  How- 
ard to  return  with  you.     I  want  to  see  him  instantly." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

The  servant  went.  Lumley  was  in  a  mood  in  which  solitude 
was  intolerable.  He  was  greatly  excited  ;  and  some  natural 
compunctions  at  the  course  on  which  he  had  decided  made  him 
long  to  escape  from  thought.  So  Maltravers  was  under  the 
same  roof  !  He  had  promised  to  give  him  an  interview  next 
day  ;  but  next  day  he  wished  to  be  on  the  road  to  London. 
Why  not  have  it  over  to-night  ?  But  could  Maltravers  medi- 
tate any  hostile  proceedings  ? — impossible  !  Whatever  his 
causes  of  complaint,  they  were  of  too  delicate  and  secret  a  na- 
ture for  seconds,  bullets,  and  newspaper  paragraphs  !  Var- 
grave might  feel  secure  that  he  should  not  be  delayed  by  any  Bois 


Alice  ;   or,  the  mysteries.  3§i 

de  Boulogne  assignation  ;  but  it  was  necessary  to  his  //o/ior{l) 
that  he  should  not  seem  to  shun  the  man  he  had  deceived 
and  wronged.  He  would  go  up  to  him  at  once — a  new  excite- 
ment would  distract  his  thoughts.  Agreeably  to  this  resolu- 
tion, Lord  Vargrave  quitted  his  room,  and  was  about  to  close 
the  outer  door,  when  he  recollected  that  perhaps  his  servant 
mii',ht  not  meet  with  Howard — that  the  secretary  might  proba- 
bly arrive  before  the  time  fixed — it  would  be  as  well  to  leave 
his  door  open.  He  accordingly  stopped,  and  writing  upon  a 
piece  of  paper,  "  Dear  Howard,  send  up  for  me  the  moment 
you  arrive  ;  I  shall  be  with  Mr.  Maltravers  au  second" — Var- 
grave wafered  the  affiche  to  the  door,  which  he  then  left  ajar, 
and  the  lamp  in  the  landing-place  fell  clear  and  full  on  the  paper. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Vargrave,  in  the  little  stone-paven  ante- 
chamber without,  inquiringof  theservant  if  Mr.  Maltravers  was 
at  home,  which  had  startled  and  interrupted  Cesarini  as  he  was 
about  to  reply  to  Ernest.  Each  recognized  that  sharp,  clear 
voice — each  glanced  at  the  other. 

"I  will  not  see  him,"  said  Maltravers,  hastily  moving  towards 
the  door  ;  "  you  are  not  fit  to — " 

"Meet  him?  no!"  said  Cesarini,  with  a  furtive  and  sinis- 
ter glance,  which  a  man  versed  in  his  disease  would  have  un- 
derstood, but  which  Maltravers  did  not  even  observe  ;  "  I  will 
retire  into  your  bedroom  ;  my  eyes  are  heavy — I  could  sleep." 

He  opened  the  inner  door  as  he  spoke,  and  had  scarcely  re- 
closed  it  before  Vargrave  entered. 

"  Your  servant  said  you  were  engaged  ;  but  I  thought  you 
might  see  an  old  friend  ;"  and  Vargrave  coolly  seated  himself, 

Maltravers  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door  that  separated  them 
from  Cesarini ;  and  the  two  men,  whose  characters  and  lives 
were  so  strongly  contrasted,  were  now  alone. 

"  You  wished  an  interview — an  explanation,"  said  Lumley  ; 
"  I  shrink  from  neither.  Let  me  forestall  inquiry  and  com- 
plaint. I  deceived  you  knowingly  and  deliberately,  it  is  quite 
true — all  stratagems  are  fair  in  love  and  war.  The  prize  was 
vast  !  I  believed  my  career  depended  on  it  ;  I  could  not  resist 
the  temptation.  I  knew  that  before  long  you  would  learn  that 
Evelyn  was  not  your  daughter ;  that  the  first  communication 
between  yourself  and  Lady  Vargrave  would  betray  me  ;  but  it 
was  worth  trying  a  coup  demain.  You  have  foiled  me,  and  con- 
quered ;  be  it  so  ;  I  congratulate  you.  You  are  tolerably  rich, 
and  the  loss  of  Evelyn's  fortune  will  not  vex  you  as  it  would 
have  done  me." 

"  Lord  Vargrave,  it  is  but  poor  affectation  to   treat  thus 


354  AttCE  ;    ok,  Ttit  MVStERTfig. 

lightly  the  dark  falsehood  you  conceived,  the  awful  curse  yoU 
inflicted  upon  me  !  Your  sight  is  now  so  painful  to  me — it  so 
stirs  the  passions  that  I  would  seek  to  suppress,  that  the  sooner 
our  interview  is  terminated  the  better,  I  have  to  charge  you, 
also,  with  a  crime — not,  perhaps,  baser  than  the  one  you  so 
calmly  own,  but  the  consequences  of  which  were  more  fatal ; 
you  understand  me  ?" 

"I  do  not." 

"  Do  not  tempt  me !  do  not  lie  ! "  said  Maltravers,  still  in  a 
calm  voice,  though  his  passions,  naturally  so  strong,  shook  his 
whole  frame.  "  To  your  arts  I  owe  the  exile  of  years  that 
should  have  been  better  spent ;  to  those  arts  Cesarini  owes  the 
wreck  of  his  reason,  and  Florence  Lascelles  her  early  grave ! 
Ah  !  you  are  pale  now;  your  tongue  cleaves  to  your  mouth  ! 
And  think  you  these  crimes  will  go  for  ever  unrequited?  think 
you  that  there  is  no  justice  in  the  thunderbolts  of  God?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Vargrave,  starting  to  his  feet ;  "  I  know  not  what 
you  suspect,  I  care  not  what  you  believe  !  But  I  am  ac- 
countable to  man,  and  that  account  I  am  willing  to  render. 
You  threatened  me  in  the  presence  of  my  ward  ;  you  spoke  of 
cowardice,  and  hinted  at  danger.  Whatever  my  faults,  want 
of  courage  is  not  one.  Stand  by  your  threats — I  am  ready  to 
brave  them  !  " 

*'A  year,  perhaps  a  short  month  ago,"  replied  Maltravers, 
"and  1  would  have  arrogated  justice  to  my  own  mortal  hand  ; 
nay,  this  very  night,  had  the  hazard  of  either  of  our  lives  been 
necessary  to  save  Evelyn  from  your  persecution,  I  would  have 
incurred  all  things  for  her  sake  !  But  that  is  past :  from  me 
you  have  nothing  to  fear.  The  proofs  of  your  earlier  guilt, 
with  its  dreadful  results,  would  alone  suffice  to  warn  me  from 
the  solemn  responsibility  of  human  vengeance  !  Great  Heaven  ! 
what  hand  could  dare  to  send  a  criminal  so  long  hardened,  so 
black  with  crime,  unatoning,  unrepentant,  and  unprepared, 
before  the  judgment  seat  of  the  All  Just  ?  Go,  unhappy 
man  !  may  life  long  be  spared  to  you  !  Awake — awake  from 
this  world,  before  your  feet  pass  the  irrevocable  boundary  of 
the  next !  " 

"  I  came  not  here  to  listen  to  homilies,  and  the  cant  of  the 
conventicle,"  said  Vargrave,  vainly  struggling  for  a  haughtiness 
of  mien  that  his  conscience-stricken  aspect  terribly  belied  ; 
"  not  I — but  this  wrong  World  is  to  be  blamed,  if  deeds  that 
strict  morality  may  not  justify,  but  the  effects  of  which  I,  no 
prophet,  could  not  foresee,  were  necessary  for  success  in  life. 
I  have  been  but  as  all  other  men  have  been  who  struggle  against 


ALICE  ;    6b,  tHE  MYStEklES.  355 

fortune,  to  be  rich  and  great  :  ambition  must  make  use  of  foul 
ladders." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Maltravers  earnestly,  touched  involuntarily,  and 
in  spite  of  his  abhorrence  of  the  criminal,  by  the  relenting  that 
this  miserable  attempt  at  self-justification  seemed  to  denote, — 
"Oh  !  be  warned  while  it  is  yet  time  ;  wrap  not  yourself  in  these 
paltry  sophistries  ;  look  back  to  your  past  career  ;  see  to  what 
heights  you  might  have  climbed,  if — with  those  rare  gifts  and 
energies — with  that  subtle  sagacity  and  indomitable  courage — • 
your  ambition  had  but  chosen  the  straight,  not  the  crooked, 
path.  Pause  !  many  years  may  yet,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
afford  you  time  to  retrace  your  steps — to  atone  to  thousands 
the  injuries  you  have  inflicted  on  the  few.  I  know  not  why  I 
thus  address  you  :  but  something  diviner  than  indignation  urges 
me  ;  something  tells  me  that  you  are  already  on  the  brink  of 
the  abyss  !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  changed  color,  nor  did  he  speak  for  some  mo- 
ments ;  then  raising  his  head,  with  a  faint  smile,  he  said  :  "  Mal- 
travers, you  are  a  false  soothsayer.  At  this  moment  my  paths, 
crooked  though  they  be,  have  led  me  far  toward  the  summit  of 
my  proudest  hopes — the  straight  path  would  have  left  me  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  !  You  yourself  are  a  beacon  against  the 
course  you  advise.  Let  us  contrast  each  other.  You  took  the 
straight  path  :  I  the  crooked.  You,  my  superior  in  fortune  ; 
you,  infinitely  above  me  in  genius  ;  you,  born  to  command  and 
never  to  crouch  ;  how  do  we  stand  now,  each  in  the  prime  of 
life  ?  You,  with  a  barren  and  profitless  reputation  ;  without 
rank,  without  power — almost  without  the  hope  of  power.  I — 
but  you  know  not  my  new  dignity — I,  in  the  cabinet  of  Eng- 
land's ministry — vast  fortunes  opening  to  my  gaze — the  proud- 
est station  not  too  high  for  my  reasonable  ambition  !  You, 
wedding  yourself  to  some  grand  chimera  of  an  object — aimless — 
when  it  eludes  your  grasp.  I,  swinging,  squirrel-like,  from 
scheme  to  scheme  ;  no  matter  if  one  breaks,  another  is  at  hand! 
Some  men  would  have  cut  their  throats  in  despair,  an  hour  ago, 
in  losing  the  object  of  a  seven  years' chase — Beauty  and  Wealtk 
both  !  1  open  a  letter,  and  find  success  in  one  quarter  to  coun- 
terbalance failure  in  another.  Bah  !  bah  !  each  to  his  mdtier, 
Maltravers  !  For  you,  honor,  melancholy,  and,  if  it  please  you, 
repentance  also  !  For  me,  the  onward,  rushing  life,  never  look- 
ing back  to  the  Past,  never  balancing  the  stepping-stones  to  the 
Future.  Let  us  not  envy  each  other  :  if  you  were  not  Diogenes, 
you  would  be  Alexander.  Adieu  !  our  interview  is  over.  Will 
you  forget  and  forgive,  and  shake  hands  once  more  ?    You  draw 


35<5  ALtc£  I  Ok,  rite,  mysteries. 

back — you  frown  !  well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  If  we  meet 
again — " 

"It  will  be  as  strangers." 

"  No  rash  vows  !  you  may  return  to  politics — you  may  want 
office.  I  am  of  your  way  of  thinking  now  :  and — ha  !  ha  ! — 
poor  Lumley  Ferrers  could  make  you  a  Lord  of  the  Treasury  : 
smooth  travelling,  and  cheap  turnpikes  on  crooked  paths,  be- 
lieve me. — Farewell !  " 

On  entering  the  room  into  which  Cesarini  had  retired,  Mal- 
travers  found  him  flown.  His  servant  said  that  the  gentleman 
had  gone  away  shortly  after  Lord  Vargrave's  arrival.  Ernest 
reproached  himself  bitterly  for  neglecting  to  secure  the  door 
that  conducted  to  the  ante-chamber  ;  but  still  it  was  probable 
that  Cesarini  would  return  in  the  morning. 

The  messenger  who  had  taken  the  letter  to  De  Montaigne 
brought  back  word  that  the  latter  was  at  his  villa,  but  expected 
at  Paris  early  the  next  day.  Maltravers  hoped  to  see  him  be- 
fore his  departure  :  meanwhile  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed, 
and,  despite  all  the  anxieties  that  yet  oppressed  him,  the  fatigues 
and  excitements  he  had  undergone  exhausted  even  the  endur- 
ance of  that  iron  frame,  and  he  fell  into  a  profound  slumber. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  By  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  shalt  be  made  immortal." — Measure  for  Measure. 

Lord  Vargrave  returned  to  his  apartment,  to  find  Mr, 
Howard,  who  had  but  just  that  instant  arrived,  warming  his 
white  and  well-ringed  hands  by  the  fire.  He  conversed  with 
him  for  half  an  hour  on  all  the  topics  on  which  the  secretary 
could  give  him  information,  and  then  dismissed  him  once  more 
to  the  roof  of  Lady  Jane, 

As  he  slowly  undressed  himself,  he  saw  on  his  writing-table 
the  note  which  Lady  Doltimore  had  referred  to,  and  which  he 
had  not  yet  opened.  He  lazily  broke  the  seal,  ran  his  eye  care- 
lessly over  its  few  blotted  words  of  remorse  and  alarm,  and 
threw  it  down  again  with  a  contemptuous  "  pshaw  !  "  Thus 
uviequally  are  the  sorrows  of  a  guilty  tie  felt  by  the  man  of  the 
w  uld  and  the  woman  of  society  ! 

A5  his  servant  placed  before  him  his  wine  and  water,  Var- 
graxe  told  him  to  see  early  to  the  preparations  for  departure, 
and  tc^  call  him  at  nine  o'clock. 


ALICE  ;    OR,  TttE   MYStERifiS.  357 

"  Shall  I  sliut  that  door,  my  lord  ?"  said  the  valet,  pointing 
to  one  that  communicated  with  one  of  those  large  closets,  or 
armoires,  that  are  common  appendages  to  French  bedrooms, 
and  in  which  wood  and  sundry  other  matters  are  kept. 

"  No,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  petulantly  ;  "you  servants  are  so 
fond  of  excluding  every  breath  of  air.  I  should  never  have  a 
window  open,  if  I  did  not  open  it  myself.  Leave  the  door  as  it 
is  ;  and  do  not  be  later  than  nine  to-morrow." 

The  servant,  who  slept  in  a  kind  of  kennel,  that  communi- 
cated with  the  anteroom,  did  as  he  was  bid  ;  and  Vargrave  put 
out  his  candle,  betook  himself  to  bed,  and,  after  drowsily  gazing 
some  minutes  on  the  dying  embers  of  the  fire,  which  threw  a 
dim,  ghastly  light  over  the  chamber,  fell  fast  asleep.  The 
clock  struck  the  first  hour  of  morning,  and  in  that  house  all 
seemed  still. 

The  next  morning,  Maltraverswas  disturbed  from  his  slumber 
by  De  Montaigne,  who,  arriving,  as  was  often  his  wont,  at  an 
early  hour  from  his  rilla,  had  found  Ernest's  note  of  the  pre- 
vious evening. 

Maltravers  rose,  and  dressed  himself  ;  and,  while  De  Mon- 
taigne was  yet  listening  to  the  account  which  his  friend  gave 
of  his  adventure  with  Cesarini,  and  the  unhappy  man's  accu- 
sation of  his  accomplice,  Ernest's  servant  entered  the  room 
very  abruptly. 

**  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know, — what  is 
to  be  done  ? — the  whole  hotel  is  in  confusion — Mr.  Howard 
has  been  sent  for, — and  Lord  Doltimore — so  very  strange,  so 
sudden  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter?  speak  plain." 

"  Lord  Vargrave,  sir — poor  Lord  Vargrave — " 

"Lord  Vargrave!" 

"Yes,  sir;  the  master  of  the  hotel,  hearing  you  knew  his 
lordship,  would  be  so  glad  if  you  would  come  down.  Lord  Var- 
grave, sir,  is  dead — found  dead  in  his  bed  ! " 

Maltravers  was  rooted  to  the  spot  with  amaze  and  horror. 
Dead  !  and  but  last  night  so  full  of  life,  and  schemes,  and 
hope,  and  ambition ! 

As  soon  as  he  recovered  himself,  he  hurried  to  the  spot,  and 
De  Montaigne  followed.  The  latter,  as  they  descended  the 
stairs,  laid  his  hand  on  Ernest's  arm,  and  detained  him. 

"  Did  you  say  that  Castruccio  left  the  apartment  while  Var- 
grave was  with  you,  and  almost  immediately  after  his  narrative 
of  Vargrave's  instigation  to  his  crime  ? " 

"  Yes." 


35^  ALICE  ;    OR,  tHE  MYSTERIES. 

The  eyes  of  the  friends  met — a  terrible  suspicion  possessed 
both. 

"  No — it  is  impossible  !  "  exclaimed  Maltravers.  "  How- 
could  he  obtain  entrance — how  pass  Lord  Vargrave's  servants? 
No,  no — think  of  it  not." 

They  hurried  down  the  stairs — they  reached  the  outer  door 
of  Vargrave's  apartment — the  notice  to  Howard,  with  the  name 
of  Vargrave  underscored,  was  still  on  the  panels — De  Mon- 
taigne saw  and  shuddered. 

They  were  in  the  room  by  the  bedside — a  group  were  collected 
round — they  gave  way  as  the  Englishman  and  his  friend 
approached;  and  the  eyes  of  Maltravers  suddenly  rested  on  the 
face  of  Lord  Vargrave,  which  was  locked,  rigid,  and  convulsed. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  which  had  ceased  at  the  entrance 
of  Maltravers — it  was  now  renewed.  A  surgeon  had  been 
summoned — the  nearest  surgeon — a  young  Englishman,  of  no 
great  repute  or  name.  He  was  making  inquiries  as  he  bent 
over  the  corpse. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Lord  Vargrave's  servant,  "  his  lordship  told 
me  to  call  him  at  nine  o'clock.  I  came  in  at  that  hour,  but 
his  lordship  did  not  move  nor  answer  me.  I  then  looked  to 
see  if  he  v/ere  very  sound  asleep,  and  I  saw  that  the  pillows  had 
got  somehow  over  his  face,  and  his  head  seemed  to  lie  very 
low ;  so  I  moved  the  pillows,  and  I  saw  that  his  lordship  was 
dead." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  surgeon,  turning  to  Maltravers,  "  you  were  a 
friend  of  his  lordship's,  I  hear.  I  have  already  sent  for  Mr. 
Howard  and  Lord  Doltimore.  Shall  I  speak  with  you  a 
minute  ?" 

Maltravers  nodded  assent.  The  surgeon  cleared  the  room 
of  all  but  himself,  De  Montaigne,  and  Maltravers. 

"  Has  that  servant  lived  long  with  Lord  Vargrave  ?"  asked 
the  surgeon. 

"  I  believe  so — yes — I  recollect  his  face — why  ?  " 

"And  you  think  him  safe  and  honest?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  know  nothing  of  him." 

"  Look  here,  sir," — and  the  surgeon  pointed  to  a  slight  dis- 
coloration on  one  side  the  throat  of  the  dead  man.  "This  may 
be  accidental — purely  natural — his  lordship  may  have  died  in 
a  fit — there  are  no  certain  marks  of  outward  violence — but 
suffocation  by  murder  might  still — " 

"But  who  beside  the  servant  could  gain  admission?  Was 
the  outer  door  closed  ? " 

"The  servant  can  take  oath   that  he  shut  the  door  before 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES.  359 

going  to  bed,  and  that  no  one  was  witli  his  lordship,  or  in  the 
rooms,  when  Lord  Vargrave  retired  to  rest.  Entrance  from 
the  windows  is  inipo.ssible.  Mind,  sir,  I  do  not  think  I  have 
any  right  to  suspect  any  one.  His  lordship  had  been  in  very 
ill  healtli  a  short  time  before  ;  had  had,  I  hear,  a  rush  of  blood 
to  tlie  head.  Certainly,  if  the  servant  be  innocent,  we  can 
suspect  no  one  else.  You  had  better  send  for  more  experienced 
practitioners." 

De  Montaigne,  who  had  hitherto  said  nothing,  now  looked 
with  a  hurried  glance  around  the  room  :  he  perceived  the  closet- 
door,  which  was  ajar,  and  rushed  to  it,  as  by  an  involuntary 
impulse.  The  closet  was  large,  but  a  considerable  pile  of  wood, 
and  some  lumber  of  odd  ciiairs  and  tables,  took  up  a  great 
part  of  the  space.  De  Montaigne  searched  behind  and  amidst 
this  litter  with  trembling  haste — no  trace  of  secreted  murder 
was  visible.  He  returned  to  the  bedroom  with  a  satisfied  and 
relieved  expression  of  countenance.  He  then  compelled  him- 
self to  approach  the  body,  from  which  he  had  hitherto  recoiled. 

"Sir,"  said  he  almost  harshly,  as  he  turned  to  the  surgeon, 
"what  idle  doubts  are  these  !  Cannot  men  die  in  their  beds — 
of  sudden  death, — no  blood  to  stain  their  pillows, — no  loop- 
hole for  crime  to  pass  through,  but  we  must  have  science  itself 
startling  us  with  silly  terrors?  As  for  the  servant,  I  will  answer 
for  his  innocence — his  manner — his  voice  attest  it."  The 
surgeon  drew  back,  abashed  and  humbled,  and  began  to  apolo- 
gize— to  qualify,  when  Lord  Doltimore  abruptly  entered. 

"Good  heavens  !"  said  he,  "what  is  this?  What  do  I  hear? 
Is  it  possible  ?  Dead  !  So  suddenly  ! "  He  cast  a  hurried 
glance  at  the  body — shivered,  and  sickened,  and  threw  him- 
self into  a  chair,  as  if  to  recover  the  shock.  When  again  he 
removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  he  saw  lying  before  him  on 
the  table  an  open  note.  The  character  was  familiar, — his  own 
name  struck  his  eye, — it  was  the  note  which  Caroline  had  sent 
the  day  before.  As  no  one  heeded  him.  Lord  Doltimore  read 
on,  and  possessed  himself  of  the  proof  of  his  wife's  guilt  unseen. 

The  surgeon,  now  turning  from  De  Montaigne,  who  had 
been  rating  him  soundly  for  the  last  few  moments,  addressed 
himself  to  Lord  Doltimore.  "Your  lordship,"  said  he,  "was, 
I  hear.  Lord  Vargrave's  most  intimate  friend  at  Paris." 

"I  his  intimate  friend  !  "  said  Doltimore,  coloring  highly,  and 
in  a  disdainful  accent.     "Sir,  you  are  misinformed." 

"Have  you  no  orders  to  give,  then,  my  lord?" 

"  None,  sir.  My  presence  here  is  quite  useless.  Good-day 
to  you,  gentlemen," 


360  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

"With  whom,  then,  do  the  last  duties  rest?"  said  the  surgeon, 
turning  to  Maltravers  and  De  Montaigne.  "With  the  late 
lord's  secretary? — I  expect  him  every  moment; — and  here  he 
is,  I  suppose," — as  Mr.  Howard,  pale,  and  evidently  overcome 
by  his  agitation,  entered  the  apartment.  Perhaps,  of  all  the 
human  beings  whom  the  ambitious  spirit  of  that  senseless  clay 
had  drawn  around  it  by  the  webs  of  interest,  affection,  or 
intrigue, that  young  man,  whom  it  had  never  been  atemptation 
to  Vargrave  to  deceive  or  injure,  and  who  missed  only  the 
gracious  and  familiar  patron,  mourned  most  his  memory,  and 
defended  most  his  character.  The  grief  of  the  poor  secretary 
was  now  indeed  overmastering.  He  sobbed  and  wept  like  a 
child. 

When  Maltravers  retired  from  the  chamber  of  death,  De 
Montaigne  accompanied  him  ;  but,  soon  quitting  him  again,  as 
Ernest  bent  his  way  to  Evelyn,  he  quietly  rejoined  Mr,  How- 
ard, who  readily  grasped  at  his  offers  of  aid  in  the  last  melan- 
choly duties  and  directions. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
"  If  we  do  meet  again,  why  we  shall  smWe."— Julius  Cocsar. 

The  interview  with  Evelyn  was  long  and  painful.  It  was 
reserved  for  Maltravers  to  break  to  her  the  news  of  the  sudden 
death  of  Lord  Vargrave,  which  shocked  her  unspeakably  ;  and 
this,  which  made  their  first  topic,  removed  much  constraint  and 
deadened  much  excitement  in  those  which  followed. 

Vargrave's  death  served  also  to  relieve  Maltravers  from  a 
most  anxious  embarrassment.  He  need  no  longer  fear  that 
Alice  would  be  degraded  in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn.  Henceforth 
the  secret  that  identified  the  erring  Alice  Darvii  with  the  spotless 
Lady  Vargrave  was  safe,  known  only  to  Mrs.  Leslie  and  to 
Aubrey.  In  the  course  of  nature,  all  chance  of  its  disclosure 
must  soon  die  with  them  ;  and  should  Alice  at  last  become 
his  wife, — and  should  Cleveland  suspect  (which  was  not  prob- 
able) that  Maltravers  had  returned  to  his  first  love,  he  knew 
that  he  might  depend  on  the  inviolable  secrecy  of  his  earliest 
friend. 

The  tale  that  Vargrave  had  told  to  Evelyn  of  his  early — ^but, 
according  to  that  tale,  guiltless — passion  for  Alice,  he  tacitly 
confirmed  ;  and  he  allowed  that  the  recollection  of  her  virtues, 
and  the  intelligence  of  her  sorrows  and  unextinguishable  affec- 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  36I 

tion,  had  made  him  recoil  from  a  marriage  with  her  supposed 
daughter.  He  then  proceeded  to  amaze  his  young  listener  with 
the  account  of  the  mode  in  which  he  had  discovered  her  real 
parentage  ;  of  which  the  banker  had  left  it  to  Alice's  discretion 
to  inform  her,  after  she  had  attained  the  age  of  eighteen.  And 
then,  simply,  but  with  manly  and  ill-controlled  emotion,  he 
touched  upon  the  joy  of  Alice  at  beholding  him  again — upon 
the  endurance  and  fervor  of  her  love — upon  her  revulsion  of 
feeling  at  learning  that,  in  her  unforgotten  lover,  she  beheld 
the  recent  suitor  of  her  adopted  child. 

"And  now,"  said  Maltravers,  in  conclusion,  "  the  path  to 
both  of  us  remains  the  same.  To  Alice  is  our  first  duty.  The 
discovery  I  have  made  of  your  real  parentage  does  not  diminish 
the  claims  which  Alice  has  on  me, — does  not  lessen  the  grateful 
affection  that  is  due  to  her  from  yourself.  Yes,  Evelyn,  we 
are  not  the  less  separated  for  ever.  But  when  I  learned  the 
wilful  falsehood  which  the  unhappy  man — now  hurried  to  his 
last  account — to  whom  your  birth  was  known,  had  imposed 
upon  me,  viz.,  that  you  were  the  child  of  Alice ;  and  when  I 
learned,  also,  that  you  had  been  hurried  into  accepting  his  hand, 
I  trembled  at  your  union  with  one  so  false  and  base.  I  came 
hither  resolved  to  frustrate  his  schemes,  and  to  save  you  from 
an  alliance,  the  motives  of  which  I  foresaw,  and  to  which  my 
own  letter,  my  own  desertion,  had  perhaps  urged  you.  New 
villanies  on  the  part  of  this  most  perverted  man  came  to  my 
ear ;  but  he  is  dead, — let  us  spare  his  memory.  For  you — 
oh !  still  let  me  deem  myself  your  friend — your  more  than 
brother ;  let  me  hope  now,  that  I  have  planted  no  thorn  in  that 
breast,  and  that  your  affection  does  not  shrink  from  the  cold 
word  of  friendship." 

"Ofall  the  wonders  that  you  have  told  me,"  answered  Evelyn, 
as  soon  as  she  could  recover  the  power  of  words,  "my  most 
poignant  sorrow  is,  that  I  have  no  rightful  claim  to  give  a 
daughter's  love  to  her  whom  I  shall  ever  idolize  as  my  mother. — 
Oh  !  now  I  see  why  I  thought  her  affection  measured  and  luke- 
warm !  And  have  I — I  destroyed  her  joy  at  seeing  you  again? 
But  you — you  will  hasten  to  console — to  reassure  her !  She 
loves  you  still, — she  will  be  happy  at  last ;  and  that — that 
thought — oh  !  that  thought  compensates  for  all ! " 

There  was  so  much  warmth  and  simplicity  in  Evelyn's  artless 
manner, — it  was  so  evident  that  her  love  for  him  had  not  been 
of  that  ardent  nature  which  would  at  first  have  superseded 
every  other  thought  in  the  anguish  of  losing  him  for  ever,  that 
the  scale  f?U  from  the  eyes  of  Maltravers,  and  he  saw  at  once 


362  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

that  his  own  love  had  blinded  him  to  the  true  character  of  hers. 
He  was  human  ;  and  a  sharp  pang  shot  across  his  breast.  He 
remained  silent  for  some  moments  ;  and  then  resumed,  com- 
pelling himself,  as  he  spoke,  to  fix  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  hers. 

"And  now,  Evelyn — still  may  I  so  call  you? — I  have  a  duty 
to  discharge  to  another.  You  are  loved  " — and  he  smiled,  but 
the  smile  was  sad — "by  a  younger  and  more  suitable  lover  than 
I  am.  From  noble  and  generous  motives  he  suppressed  that 
love — he  left  you  to  a  rival :  the  rival  removed,  dare  he  venture 
to  explain  to  you  his  own  conduct,  and  plead  his  own  motives? — 
George  Legard — "  Maltravers  paused.  The  cheek  on  which  he 
gazed  was  tinged  with  a  soft  blush — Evelyn's  eyes  were  down- 
cast— there  was  a  slight  heaving  beneath  the  robe.  Maltravers 
suppressed  a  sigh,  and  continued.  He  narrated  his  interview 
with  Legard  at  Dover ;  and,  passing  lightly  over  what  had 
chanced  at  Venice,  dwelt  with  generous  eloquence  on  the  mag- 
nanimity with  which  his  rival's  gratitude  had  been  displayed. 
Evelyn's  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  smile  just  visited  the  rosy  lips 
and  vanished  again — the  worst,  because  it  was  the  least  selfish, 
fear  of  Maltravers  was  gone  ;  and  no  vain  doubt  of  Evelyn's 
too  keen  regret  remained  to  chill  his  conscience  in  obeying  its 
earliest  and  strongest  duties. 

"Farewell!"  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  depart ;  "I  will  at  once 
return  to  London,  and  assist  in  the  effort  to  save  your  fortune 
from  this  general  wreck :  Life  calls  us  back  to  its  cares  and 
business — farewell,  Evelyn !  Aubrey  will,  I  trust,  remain  with 
you  still." 

"Remain! — Can  I  not  return  then  to  my — to  her — yes,  let 
me  call  her  mother  still?" 

"Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  spare  me — 
spare  her  that  pain  !  Are  we  yet  fit  to — "He  paused;  Evelyn 
comprehended  him,  and,  hiding  her  face  with  her  hands,  burst 
into  tears. 

When  Maltravers  left  the  room,  he  was  met  by  Aubrey,  who, 
drawing  him  aside,  told  him  that  Lord  Doltimore  .had  just 
informed  him  that  it  was  not  his  intention  to  remain  at  Paris, 
and  had  more  than  delicately  hinted  at  a  wish  for  the  departure 
of  Miss  Cameron.  In  this  emergency,  Maltravers  bethought 
himself  of  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

No  house  in  Paris  was  a  more  eligible  refuge — no  friend  more 
zealous — no  protector  would  be  more  kind — no  adviser  more 
sincere.  To  her  then  he  hastened.  He  briefly  informed  her 
of  Vargrave's  sudden  death  ;  and  suggested,  that  for  Evelyn  to 
return  at  Qnge  to  a  se(^uestered  village  in  England  might  be  ^ 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYStERlES.  ^6$ 

Severe  trial  to  spirits  already  broken  ;  and  declared  truly,  that 
though  his  marriage  with  Evelyn  was  broken  off,  her  welfare 
was  no  less  dear  to  him  than  heretofore.  At  his  first  hint, 
Valerie,  who  took  a  cordial  interest  in  Evelyn  for  her  own  sake, 
ordered  her  carriage,  and  drove  at  once  to  Lady  Doltimore's, 
His  lordship  was  out — her  ladyship  was  ill — in  her  own  room — 
could  see  no  one — not  even  her  guest.  Evelyn  in  vain  sent  up 
to  request  an  interview  ;  and  at  last,  contenting  herself  with  an 
affectionate  note  of  farewell,  accompanied  Aubrey  to  the  liome 
of  her  new  hostess. 

Gratified  at  least  to  know  her  with  one  who  would  be  sure  to 
win  her  affection,  and  soothe  her  spirits,  Maltravers  set  out  on 
his  solitary  return  to  England. 

Whatever  suspicious  circumstances  might  or  might  not  have 
attended  the  death  of  Lord  Vargrave,  certain  it  is,  that  no  evi- 
dence confirmed,  and  no  popular  rumor  circulated,  them.  His 
illness,  added  to  the  supposed  shock  of  the  loss  of  the  fortune 
he  had  anticipated  with  Miss  Cameron — aided  by  the  simulta- 
neous intelligence  of  the  defeat  of  the  party  with  whom  it  was 
believed  he  had  indissolubly  entwined  his  ambition,  sufficed  to 
account,  satisfactorily  enough,  for  the  melancholy  event.  De 
Montaigne,  who  had  been  long,  though  not  intimately,  acquainted 
with  the  deceased,  took  upon  himself  all  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments,  and  superintended  the  funeral ;  after  which  ceremony, 
Howard  returned  to  London  :  and  in  Paris,  as  in  the  Grave,  all 
things  are  forgotten  !  But  still  in  De  Montaigne's  breast  there 
dwelt  a  horrible  fear.  As  soon  as  he  had  learned  from  Mal- 
travers the  charge  the  maniac  brought  against  Vargrave,  there 
came  upon  him  the  recollection  of  that  day  when  Cesarini  had 
attempted  De  Montaigne's  life,  evidently  mistaking  him  in  his 
delirium  for  another — and  the  sullen  cunning  and  ferocious 
character  which  the  insanity  had  ever  afterwards  assumed.  He 
had  learned  from  Howard  that  the  outer  door  had  been  left  ajar 
when  I^ord  Vargrave  was  with  Maltravers  ;  the  writing  on  the 
panel — the  name  of  Vargrave — would  have  struck  Castruccio's 
eye  as  he  descended  the  stairs  :  the  servant  was  from  home — the 
apartments  deserted  ;  he  might  have  won  his  way  into  the  bed- 
chamber, concealed  himself  in  the  armoire,  and  in  the  dead  of 
the  night,  and  in  the  deep  and  helpless  sleep  of  his  victim,  have 
done  the  deed.  What  need  of  weapons? — the  suffocating  pil- 
lows would  stop  speech  and  life.  What  so  easy  as  escape? — to 
pass  into  the  anteroom — to  unbolt  the  door — to  descend 
into  the  courtyard — to  give  the  signal  to  the  porter  in  his 
lodge,  who,  without   seeing  him,  would   pull   the  cordon,  and 


^54  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 

give  him  egress  unobserved?     All  this   was   so   possible — so 
probable. 

De  Montaigne  now  withdrew  all  inquiry  for  the  unfortunate; 
he  trembled  at  the  thought  of  discovering  him — of  verifying  his 
awful  suspicions — of  beholding  a  murderer  in  the  brother  of  his 
wife  !  But  he  was  not  doomed  long  to  entertain  fears  for  Ce- 
sarini — ^^he  was  not  fated  ever  to  change  suspicion  into  certainty. 
A  few  days  after  Lord  Vargrave's  burial,  a  corpse  was  drawn 
from  the  Seine.  Some  tablets  in  the  pockets,  scrawled  over  with 
wild,  incoherent  verses,  gave  a  clue  to  the  discovery  of  the  dead 
man's  friends  ;  and,  exposed  at  the  Morgue,  in  that  bleached 
and  altered  clay,  De  Montaigne  recognized  the  remains  of  Cas- 
truccio  Cesarini.     "  He  died  and  made  no  sign  ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 
"  Singula  quaeque  locum  teneant  sortita."* — HoR.  Ars  Poet. 

Maltravers  and  the  lawyers  were  enabled  to  save  from  the 
insolvent  bank  but  a  very  scanty  portion  of  that  wealth  in  which 
Richard  Templeton  had  rested  so  much  pride  !  The  title  ex- 
tinct, the  fortune  gone — so  does  Fate  laugh  at  our  posthu- 
mous ambition !  Meanwhile  Mr.  Douce,  with  a  considerable 
plunder,  had  made  his  way  to  America  ;  the  bank  owed  nearly 
half  a  million ;  the  purchase-money  for  Lisle  Court,  which  Mr, 
Douce  had  been  so  anxious  to  get  into  his  clutches,  had  not 
sufficed  to  stave  off  the  ruin — but  a  great  part  of  it  sufficed  to 
procure  competence  for  himself.  How  inferior  in  wit,  in  acute- 
ness,  in  stratagem,  was  Douce  to  Vargrave — and  yet  Douce  had 
gulled  him  like  a  child  !  Well  said  the  shrewd  small  philoso- 
pher of  France, — ''''On  peut  etre  plus  fin  qtiun  autre,  mais pas 
plus  fin  que  tons  les  autres."  f 

To  Legard,  whom  Maltravers  had  again  encountered  at 
Dover,  the  latter  related  the  downfall  of  Evelyn's  fortune ;  and 
Maltravers  loved  him  when  he  saw  that,  far  from  changing  his 
affection,  the  loss  of  wealth  seemed  rather  to  raise  his  hopes. 
They  parted  ;  and  Legard  set  out  for  Paris. 

But  was  Maltravers  all  the  while  forgetful  of  Alice  ?  He  had 
not  been  twelve  hours  in  London  before  he  committed  to  a  long 
and  truthful  letter  all  his  thoughts — his  hopes — his  admiring  and 
profound  gratitude.     Again,  and  with  solemn  earnestness,  he 

*  To  each  lot  its  appropriate  place. 

t  One  may  be  more  sharp  than  one's  neighbor,   but  one  can't  be  sharper  than  all  one's 
neighbors. — Rochefoucauld- 


ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  365 

implored  her  to  accept  his  hand,  and  to  confirm,  at  the  altar,  the 
tale  which  had  been  told  to  Evelyn.  Truly  he  said,  that  the 
shock  which  his  first  belief  in  Vargrave's  falsehood  had  occa- 
sioned— his  passionate  determination  to  subdue  all  trace  of  a  love 
then  associated  with  crime  and  horror — followed  so  close  by  his 
discovery  of  Alice's  enduring  faith  and  affection — had  removed 
the  image  of  Evelyn  from  the  throne  it  had  hitherto  held  in  his 
desires  and  thoughts;  truly  he  said,  that  he  was  now  convinced 
that  Evelyn  would  soon  be  consoled  for  his  loss  by  another, 
with  whom  she  would  be  happier  than  with  him  ;  truly  and 
solemnly  he  declared  that  if  Alice  rejected  him  still,  if  even 
Alice  were  no  more,  his  suit  to  Evelyn  never  could  be  renewed, 
and  Alice's  memory  would  usurp  the  place  of  all  living  love  ! 

Her  answer  came  ;  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart.  It  was  so 
humble,  so  grateful,  so  tender  still.  Unknown  to  herself,  love 
yet  colored  every  word  ;  but  it  was  love  pained,  galled,  crushed, 
and  trampled  on  :  it  was  love,  proud  from  its  very  depth  and 
purity.     His  offer  was  refused. 

Months  passed  away — Maltravers  yet  trusted  to  time.  The 
curate  had  returned  to  Brook-Green,  and  his  letters  fed  Ernest's 
hopes  and  assured  his  doubts.  The  more  leisure  there  was  left 
him  for  reflection,  the  fainter  became  those  dazzling  and  rain- 
bow hues  in  which  Evelyn  had  been  robed  and  surrounded, 
and  the  brighter  the  halo  that  surrounded  his  earliest  love.  The 
more  he  pondered  on  Alice's  history,  and  the  singular  beauty  of 
her  faithful  attachment,  the  more  he  was  impressed  with  won- 
der and  admiration — the  more  anxious  to  secure  to  his  side  one 
to  whom  Nature  had  been  so  bountiful  in  all  the  gifts  that  make 
woman  the  angel  and  star  of  life. 

Months  passed — from  Paris  the  news  that  Maltravers  re- 
ceived confirmed  all  his  expectations — the  suit  of  Legard  had 
replaced  his  own.  It  was  then  that  Maltravers  began  to  con- 
sider how  far  the  fortune  of  Evelyn  and  her  destined  husband 
was  such  as  to  preclude  all  anxiety  for  their  future  lot.  Fortune 
is  so  indeterminate  in  its  gauge  and  measurement.  Money,  the 
most  elastic  of  materials,  falls  short  or  exceeds,  according  to  the 
extent  of  our  wants  and  desires.  With  all  Legard's  good  qual- 
ities, he  was  constitutionally  careless  and  extravagant;  and  Eve- 
lyn was  too  inexperienced,  and  too  gentle,  perhaps,  to  correct 
his  tendencies.  Maltravers  learned  that  Legard's  income  was 
one  that  required  an  economy  which  he  feared  that,  in  spite 
of  all  his  reformation,  Legard  might  not  have  the  self-denial  to 
enforce.  After  some  consideration,  he  resolved  to  add  secretly 
to  the  remains  of  Evelyn's  fortune  such  a  sum  as  might — being 


^66  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

properly  secured  to  herself  and  children — lessen  whatever  dan- 
ger could  arise  from  the  possible  improvidence  of  her  husband, 
and  guard  against  the  chance  of  those  embarrassments  which  are 
among  the  worst  disturbers  of  domestic  peace.  He  was  enabled 
to  effect  this  generosity,  unknown  to  both  of  them,  as  if  the  sum 
bestowed  were  collected  from  the  wrecks  of  Evelyn's  own  wealth, 

and  the  profits  of  the  sale  of  the  houses  in  C ,  which  of  course 

had  not  been  involved  in  Douce's bankruptcy.  And  then  if  Alice 
were  ever  his,  her  jointure,  which  had  been  secured  on  the  prop- 
erty appertaining  to  the  villa  at  Fulham,  would  devolve  upon 
Evelyn.  Maltravers  could  never  accept  what  Alice  owed  to  an- 
other. Poor  Alice  ! — No  !  not  that  modest  wealth  which  you 
had  looked  upon  complacently  as  one  day  or  other  to  be  his ! 

Lord  Doltimore  is  travelling  in  the  East, — Lady  Doltimore, 
less  adventurous,  has  fixed  her  residence  in  Rome.  She  has 
grown  thin,  and  taken  to  antiquities  and  rouge.  Her  spirits  are 
remarkably  high — not  an  uncommon  effect  of  laudanum. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

*         *         *     "Arrived  at  last 

Unto  the  wished  haven." — Shakespeare. 

In  the  August  of  that  eventful  year  a  bridal  party  were  as- 
sembled at  the  cottage  of  Lady  Vargrave.  The  ceremony  had 
just  been  performed,  and  Ernest  Maltravers  had  bestowed  upon 
George  Legard  the  hand  of  Evelyn  Templeton. 

If  upon  the  countenance  of  him  who  thus  officiated  as  a 
father  to  her  he  had  once  wooed  as  a  bride,  an  observant  eye 
might  have  noted  the  trace  of  mental  struggles,  it  was  the  trace 
of  struggles  past :  and  the  calm  had  once  more  settled  over  the 
silent  deeps.  He  saw  from  the  casement  the  carriage  that  was 
to  bear  away  the  bride  to  the  home  of  another ;  the  gay  faces 
of  the  village  group,  whose  intrusion  was  not  forbidden,  and  to 
whom  that  solemn  ceremonial  was  but  a  joyous  pageant ;  and 
when  he  turned  once  more  to  those  within  the  chamber  he  felt 
his  hand  clasped  in  Legard's. 

"  You  have  been  the  preserver  of  my  life — you  have  been  the 
dispenser  of  my  earthly  happiness ;  all  now  left  to  me  to  wish 
for  is,  that  you  may  receive  from  Heaven  the  blessings  you  have 
given  to  others  ! " 

"Legard.  never  let  her  know  a  sorrow  that  you  can  guard  her 


ALICE  ;     OR,  THE   MYSTERIES.  367 

from  ;  and  believe  that  the  husband  of  Evelyn  will  be  dear  to 
me  as  a  brother  !  " 

And  as  a  brother  blesses  some  younger  and  orphan  sister  be- 
queathed and  intrusted  to  a  care  that  should  replace  a  father's, 
so  Maltravers  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  Evelyn's  golden  tresses, 
and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer.  He  ceased — he  pressed  his  last 
kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  her 
young  husband.  There  was  silence — and  when  to  the  ear  of 
Maltravers  it  was  broken,  it  was  by  the  wheels  of  the  carriage 
that  bore  away  the  wife  of  George  Legard ! 

The  spell  was  dissolved  for  ever.  And  there  stood  before  the 
lonely  man  the  idol  of  his  early  youth,  the  Alice,  still,  perhaps, 
as  fair,  and  once  young  and  passionate,  as  Evelyn — pale,  changed, 
but  lovelier  than  of  old,  if  heavenly  patience  and  holy  thought, 
and  the  trials  that  purify  and  exalt,  can  shed  over  human  fea- 
tures something  more  beautiful  than  bloom, 

Tlie  good  curate  alone  was  present,  besides  these  two 
survivors  of  the  error  and  the  love  that  make  the  rapture 
and  the  misery  of  so  many  of  our  kind.  And  the  old  man, 
after  contemplating  them  a  moment,  stole  unperceived 
away. 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers,  and  his  voice  trembled  ;  "hitherto, 
from  motives  too  pure  and  too  noble  for  the  practical  affections 
and  ties  of  life,  you  have  rejected  the  hand  of  the  lover  of  your 
youth.  Here  again  I  implore  you  to  be  mine  !  Give  to  my 
conscience  the  balm  of  believing  that  I  can  repair  to  you  the 
evils  and  the  sorrows  I  have  brought  upon  you.  Nay,  weep  not; 
turn  not  away.  Each  of  us  stands  alone;  each  of  us  needs  the 
other.  In  your  heart  is  locked  up  all  my  fondest  associations, 
my  brightest  memories.  In  you  I  see  the  mirror  of  what  I  was 
when  the  world  was  new,  ere  I  had  found  how  Pleasure  palls 
upon  us,  and  Ambition  deceives  !  And  me,  Alice — ah,  you  love 
me  still ! — Time  and  absence  have  but  strengthened  the  chain 
that  binds  us.  By  the  memory  of  our  early  love — by  the  grave 
of  our  lost  child  that,  had  it  lived,  would  have  united  its  parents, 
I  implore  you  to  be  mine ! " 

"  Too  generous  ! "  said  Alice,  almost  sinking  beneath  the 
emotions  that  shook  that  gentle  spirit  and  fragile  form.  "  How 
can  I  suffer  your  compassion — for  it  is  but  compassion — to  de- 
ceive yourself  ?  You  are  of  another  station  than  I  believed  you. 
How  can  you  raise  the  child  of  destitution  and  guilt  to  your  own 
rank  ?  And  shall  I — I — who.  Heaven  knows  !  would  save  you 
from  all  regret — bring  to  you  now,  when  years  have  so  changed 
and  broken  the  little  charm  I  could  ever  have  possessed,  this 


368  ALICE  ;     OR,  THE    MYSTERIES. 

blighted  heart  and  weary  spirit? — oh !  no,  no  ! "  and  Alice  paused 
abruptly,  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"Be  it  as  you  will,"  said  Maltravers  mournfully;  "but,  at 
least  ground  your  refusal  upon  better  motives.  Say  that  now  in- 
dependent in  fortune,  and  attached  to  the  habits  you  have  formed, 
you  would  not  hazard  your  happiness  in  my  keeping — perhaps 
you  are  right.  To  my  happiness  you  would  indeed  contribute  ; 
your  sweet  voice  might  charm  away  many  a  memory  and  many 
a  thought  of  the  baffled  years  that  have  intervened  since  we 
parted  ;  your  image  might  dissipate  the  solitude  which  is  clos- 
ing round  the  Future  of  a  disappointed  and  anxious  life.  With 
you,  and  with  you  alone,  I  might  yet  find  a  home,  a  comforter,  a 
charitable  and  soothing  friend.  This  you  could  give  to  me:  and 
with  a  heart  and  a  form  alike  faithful  to  a  love  that  deserved 
not  so  enduring  a  devotion.  But  I — what  can  I  bestow  on  you? 
Your  station  is  equal  to  my  own  :  your  fortune  satisfies  your 
simple  wants.  'Tis  true  the  exchange  is  not  equal,  Alice. — 
Adieu!" 

"  Cruel !  "  said  Alice,  approaching  him  with  timid  steps.  "  If 
I  could — I  so  untutored,  so  unworthy — if  I  could  comfort  you 
in  a  single  care  !  " — 

She  said  no  more,  but  she  had  said  enough  ;  and  Maltravers, 
clasping  her  to  his  bosom,  felt  once  more  that  heart  which 
never,  even  in  thought,  had  swerved  from  its  early  worship,  beat- 
ing against  his  own  ! 

He  drew  her  gently  into  the  open  air.  The  ripe  and  mellow 
noonday  of  the  last  month  of  summer  glowed  upon  the  odorous 
flowers  ; — and  the  broad  sea,  that  stretched  beyond  and  afar, 
wore  upon  its  solemn  waves  a  golden  and  happy  smile. 

"  And  ah,"  murmured  Alice  softly  as  she  looked  up  from  his 
breast  ;  "  I  ask  not  if  you  have  loved  others  since  we  parted — 
man's  faith  is  so  different  from  ours — I  ask  only  if  you  love  me 
now  ?  " 

"  More!  oh,  immeasurably  more,  than  in  our  youngest  days," 
cried  Maltravers  with  fervent  passion.  "  More  fondly — more  rev- 
erently— more  trustfully,  than  I  ever  loved  living  being  ! — even 
her,  in  whose  youth  and  innocence  I  adored  the  memory  of  thee  ! 
Here  have  I  found  that  which  shames  and  bankrupts  the  Ideal  ! 
Here  have  I  found  a  virtue,  that,  coming  at  once  from  God  and 
Nature,  has  been  wiser  than  all  my  false  philosophy,  and  firmer 
than  all  my  pride  !  You,  cradled  by  misfortune, — your  child- 
hood reared  amidst  scenes  of  fear  and  vice,  which,  while  they 
scared  back  the  intellect,  had  no  pollution  for  the  soul, — your  very 
parent  your  tempter  and  your  foe, — you,  only  not  a  miracle  and 


Alice  ;  or,  the  mysteries.  369 

an  angel  by  the  stain  of  one  soft  and  unconscious  error, — you, 
alike  through  the  equal  trials  of  poverty  and  wealth,  have  been 
destined  to  rise  above  all  triumphant, — the  example  of  the 
sublime  moral  that  teaches  us  with  what  mysterious  beauty 
and  immortal  holiness  the  Creator  has  endowed  our  human 
nature,  when  hallowed  by  our  human  affections  !  You  alone 
suffice  to  shatter  into  dust  the  haughty  creeds  of  the  Misan- 
thrope and  Pharisee  !  And  your  fidelity  to  my  erring  self  has 
taught  me  ever  to  love,  to  serve,  to  compassionate,  to  respect, 
the  community  of  God's  creatures  to  which — noble  and  elevated 
though  you  are — you  yet  belong  !  " 

He  ceased,  overpowered  with  the  rush  of  his  own  thoughts. 
And  Alice  was  too  blest  for  words.  But  in  the  murmur  of  the 
sunlit  leaves — in  the  breath  of  the  summer  air — in  the  song  of  the 
exulting  birds — and  the  deep  and  distant  music  of  the  heaven- 
surrounded  seas,  there  went  a  melodious  voice  that  seemed  as  if 
Nature  echoed  to  his  words,  and  blest  the  reunion  of  her  children. 

Maltravers  once  more  entered  upon  the  career  so  long  sus- 
pended. He  entered  with  an  energy  more  practical  and  stead- 
fast than  the  fitful  enthusiasm  of  former  years.  And  it  was  notice- 
able amongst  those  who  knew  him  well,  that,  while  the  firmness 
of  his  mind  was  not  impaired,  the  haughtiness  of  his  temper  was 
subdued.  No  longer  despising  Man  as  he  is,  and  no  longer 
exacting  from  all  things  the  ideal  of  a  visionary  standard,  he  was 
more  fitted  to  mix  in  the  living  world,  and  to  minister  usefully  to 
the  great  objects  that  refine  and  elevate  our  race.  His  senti- 
ments were,  perhaps,  less  lofty,  but  his  actions  were  infinitely 
more  excellent,  and  his  theories  infinitely  more  wise. 

Stage  after  stage  we  have  proceeded  with  him  through  the 
MYSTERIES  OF  LIFE,  The  Elcusinia  are  closed,  and  the  crown- 
ing libation  poured. 

And  Alice  ! — Will  the  world  blame  us  if  you  are  left  happy  at 
the  last?  We  are  daily  banishing  from  our  law-books  the 
statutes  that  disproportion  punishment  to  crime.  Daily  we 
preach  the  doctrine  that  we  demoralize,  wherever  we  strain 
justice  into  cruelty.  It  is  time  that  we  should  apply  to  the 
Social  Code  the  wisdom  we  recognize  in  Legislation! — It  is  time 
that  we  should  do  away  with  the  punishment  of  death  for  inade- 
quate offences,  even  in  books  ;  it  is  time  that  we  should  allow 
the  moralityof  atonement,  and  permit  to  Error  the  right  to  hope, 
as  the  reward  of  submission  to  its  sufferings.  Nor  let  it  be 
thought  that  the  close  to  Alice's  career  can  offer  temptation  to 
the  offence  of  its  commencement.     Eighteen  years  of  sadness — 


37©  ALICE  ;    OR,  THE   MYSTERIES. 

a  youth  consumed  in  silent  sorrow  over  the  grave  of  Joy — have 
images  that  throw  over  these  pages  a  dark  and  warning  shadow 
that  will  haunt  the  young  long  after  they  turn  from  the  tale  that 
is  about  to  close  !  If  Alice  had  died  of  a  broken  heart — if  her 
punishment  had  been  more  than  she  could  bear — then,  as  in 
real  life,  you  would  have  justly  condemned  my  moral ;  and  the 
human  heart,  in  its  pity  for  the  victim,  would  have  lost  all  recol- 
lection of  the  error. — My  Tale  is  done. 


THE   END. 


A    001002  414    9 


